


Craig's Leather Jacket Destroys Society

by mousapelli



Category: South Park
Genre: Craig is a Good Boyfriend, Craig's Gang, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Middle School, Musicals, Timmy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-05 02:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousapelli/pseuds/mousapelli
Summary: After three years of fake dating, Tweek is convinced that his overwhelming feelings will wreck everything if Craig ever finds out about them. He's holding it together just fine until South Park Middle gives Craig a role in Grease, and Craig in a leather jacket pulls the whole thing down around Tweek's ears. Asking their friends for advice can't backfire that badly, right?





	1. Ain't No Danger We Can Go Too Far

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for months and it's finally close enough to done that I feel comfortable starting to post chapters. I meant for this to just be a couple thousand words with a cute confession and just like everything else this year, 2-3k turned into like 25k without asking my permission at all. 
> 
> In some other universe the kids force a genderflipped version of Grease and Butters ends up as Alexander Dee. Maybe by the time they get to high school. 
> 
> Anyway I hope somebody enjoys this after all of this mess. Thanks to Amy for reading over some parts after I changed them four times. Chapter titles from Grease song lyrics.

Tweek should be doing his homework. He's only read half of his English novel and a third of the history chapter he's supposed to have outlined by tomorrow, plus middle school pre-algebra is kicking his ass because as it turns out having a normal teacher for fifth grade hasn't even come close to making up for the lost time of two years of Mr. Garrison's math curriculum. He should be doing a lot of stuff, but instead he's slouched down in one of the seats in the back row of the auditorium, watching Craig, Clyde, Butters, and Jimmy practice "Greased Lightning" for what has to be the fifteenth time. 

Mostly he's watching Craig. Craig took a bunch of allergy pills before practice so his voice is clearer than usual, which Tweek has no problem picking out from between the other boys' voices. Craig had been stiff the first few weeks of musical practice, but he's relaxed into it now, willing to be a little silly with Clyde and Butters as they work on the over-the-top choreography, and Tweek even sees him smile now and again. Plus they got their T-bird jackets earlier in the week, and it turns out that Tweek is absolute trash for Craig in a leather jacket. 

That's how Bebe had said it to him Monday, and Tweek's been thinking about it ever since. Clyde and Craig had Coonstagrammed a bunch of shameless pair selfies in their jackets and sunglasses, posing like bad GAP models with cool faces in the bathroom in the music hallway. Bebe had been at Tweak Bros coffee when they'd started posting, leaning over the counter to show Tweek so that somebody else was forced to share her pain. 

"Ugh, Clyde is such a _dork_ ," she'd whined, but she was grinning, flicking back and forth through the pictures. "But I'm such trash for it, just kill me."

"Yeah." Tweek had agreed with the sentiment more than any other sentence in his life. His own eyes were glued to Craig's hair without his hat, Craig looking over the rim of his sunglasses like he was too cool for everything, Craig's tiny half-smile when he was looking at Clyde without realizing Clyde was still taking pictures. "They're, nngh, the _worst_."

It's only gotten worse in the week since then, so now Tweek has a lapful of unfinished homework but Craig is all he can focus on. Craig in his stupid skinny jeans and stupid sunglasses and _seriously fuck that leather jacket_. 

He's not supposed to care about Craig in a leather jacket. He's not supposed to think about his best friend like this at all, he's not even supposed to be gay! Tweek hunches down in the squeaky auditorium seat and wishes that he could be as clueless as the football kids who towel-snap each other's butts and don't think that's gay at all, but unfortunately self-awareness is one mental skill Tweek has a little too much of. He wants to pretend that the messy yarn ball of feelings in his chest isn't unravelling his best friend feelings down to a core of molten hormonal goo. 

The thought of his fucked up feelings melting through his friendship with Craig like acid makes Tweek clutch the edges of his math book so tightly his knuckles go white. 

"I won't fuck it up," Tweek whispers to himself, like if he says it out loud it'll stick better. "ACK, I WON'T."

After practice finally ends, Tweek loiters around the door that leads to the auditorium's backstage, chewing a ragged thumbnail until Craig appears. Craig is shoving at Clyde as they come through the door, but he drops it to head for Tweek as soon as he sees him. 

"You don't have to wait for me, babe," Craig says, already taking Tweek's hand to slide their fingers together. Tweek clutches at Craig's hand like a lifeline, immensely relieved every time Craig treats him normally instead of somehow telepathically picking up on Tweek's internal drama. "Don't you have work in half an hour?"

"S'fine," Tweek says, gaze skittering away from Craig's. "I was doing homework."

Craig squeezes Tweek's hand. "Come on, I'll walk you." 

It isn't like he doesn't think Craig likes him at all, Tweek reflects as they stop by Craig's locker before heading outside; he knows that Craig cares about him, and Craig doesn't give half a fuck about most things. So he knows it says a lot that Craig was willing to stay "boyfriends" for even a couple weeks, much less nearly three years. The handholding, the hugging, and the pet names are something they decided on so long ago they all seem normal to the point of being meaningless to Tweek, and he doesn't see any sign in Craig's flat expression that he feels any differently. 

Craig slams his locker shut, Tweek so lost in his internal dialogue he doesn't even jump. Craig looks him over critically, their height difference making it easy for Tweek to look at Craig's shoulder and not his face. He startles a little when Craig presses a thumb just over his left eyebrow, Craig's hand cooler than Tweek's skin as usual. 

"Migraine?" Craig asks. Tweek's eye twitches, shifting his skin under Craig's touch. "It's supposed to storm again tomorrow."

"I took some stuff earlier," Tweek says, daring a look up at Craig's eyes. A sigh swells in his chest, but Tweek locks his jaw, trapping it until it deflates. Why are his eyes even so blue? 

"Don't puke on any customers," Craig advises, hand dropping to take Tweek's. 

"FUCKYOU," Tweek snaps in aggravation. "That—gah—happened once!" 

Sometimes Tweek thinks Craig is just doing all of this for his sake, because it's no secret that Craig is the only person Tweek really trusts, the only solid thing Tweek feels like he's clinging to half the time. Craig's seen him have panic attacks, migraine puke, ugly cry over nothing, and wake up from nightmares that leave both of them marked with red scratch welts. None of it shakes Craig, and Tweek's so thankful for it that he's fine to keep things exactly like this, forever if that's what Craig wants. He'll just keep shoving all of his weird puberty drama down into some hidden part of himself, until it stops, and Craig won't ever know how Tweek could have wrecked them just like he wrecks everything else eventually. 

The walk to Tweek Bros. Coffee is peaceful, Craig telling a story about Clyde and Jimmy fucking around in the wings and competing to see who could make Butters lose it during his lines. Tweek is still distracted but snickers in all the right places, used to the way Craig's monotone delivery makes even a funny story flat unless you read between the lines. It's snowing just a little, just enough to speckle Tweek's green thermal shirt and Craig's coat with flakes. 

Tweek stops to look, and Craig is two steps past by the time their joined hands pull him up short. "Babe?"

"Look how perfect they are," Tweek says, holding out his arm. A dozen flakes dot the fabric of his shirt, their details easy to see against the dark color. The snowflakes are tiny and sharp like they only get when it's really cold, like they've been punched out of paper. 

"Yeah," Craig agrees, only when Tweek looks up, Craig isn't looking at the snowflakes at all. He's looking at Tweek's face, his expression flat and unreadable. Tweek drops his arm, flustered, but he doesn't look away, feeling pinned by the clear blue of Craig's eyes. A loop starts up in his head of _why's he staring at me is it because I'm staring at him why can't I stop staring at him are you stupid stop staring oh god why's he staring at me—_

" _Aaugh!_ " Tweek blurts, shivering. "Work! I'm gonnabelate, hurry up!"

"You're the one who stopped," Craig points out. He tugs on Tweek's hand to get them moving again. Tweek watches his scuffed sneakers against the sidewalk for the rest of the trip, the only points of warmth on his body the burn of his cheeks and his hand clasped tightly in Craig's. 

_Get a grip, asshole,_ he scolds himself. Didn't he just say he wasn't going to fuck it up? 

It's getting dark by the time they step into the coffee shop, Mrs. Tweak calling out a hello. "Hurry up and clock in, son, what did your father tell you about punctuality?"

"Eurrrgh," Tweek grumbles, giving Craig's hand a last squeeze before shaking him off and going to throw on his apron. When he comes out of the back room, his mother is waiting for him to take her place at the counter and pulling on her coat. 

"Craig, would you like a ride home?" she asks, but Craig shakes his head. 

"No thanks. My mom's at my sister's hockey practice still. Is it all right if I do homework here until she picks me up on the way home?" Craig looks at Tweek for just a second, unreadable, before his gaze flicks back to Mrs. Tweak. "I won't be a distraction, I promise."

_Fat fucking chance_ , Tweek thinks sourly to himself, wishing he could just sink to the floor behind the counter and stay there. Instead he spends the first two hours of his shift with half his attention always on the corner table where Craig is doggedly reading their English novel. Once in a while, Craig looks up and catches him staring, making Tweek jerk his gaze away, face warm. It's not busy enough to keep him really occupied, and the few customers he does serve all seem bent on studying the menu for minutes at a stretch. 

"What flavors can I add?" the current woman asks, startling Tweek out of his thoughts. 

"HA-Azle…nut," Tweek yelps, then draws a shaky breath, focusing himself. "Peppermint, raspberry, caramel, vanilla…" The woman is still staring at him. "We, um, might have pumpkin left over from fall?"

"I think I'll have a medium black coffee," she finally decides, and Tweek has to clamp his jaw shut to keep from screaming in frustration. If she just wanted black coffee, why did she make him name all the flavors?! As he turns to the coffee press, Tweek catches a glimpse of Craig's face, looking like he's about to laugh; at Tweek's glare, Craig drops his eyes to his book again. 

Eventually there's a temporary lull, and Tweek is so tired by then that he forgets to be self-conscious as he drops into the chair across from Craig. Craig murmurs a hello, eyes still on the book. 

"How far are you?" Tweek asks. His headache is creeping back in through his meds, pulsing gently over his eye. Tweek presses the heel of his hand to it, feeling the grit of coffee grounds against his skin. 

"Chapter twenty." Craig lets the book fall flat to the table, reaching up to rub his own eye. "I should start math, but I'm kind of enjoying it?"

"Dork," Tweek teases, letting his cheek hit the table. It's sticky, but Tweek's past caring. He tries to keep an eye on the door, but it strains his already twitching eye, so he gives up. "Tell me if someone comes in."

"Sure. Is the math hard?"

"Yeah," Tweek says. It isn't a lie because it will be hard when he starts it. Whenever the fuck that will be. He lets his eyes fall shut and heaves a sigh. It's so unfair how he feels like he could nap here just like this, but he knows when he gets home he won't be sleepy at anything like an appropriate bedtime. 

"Help me look at it," Craig says. When Tweek's only answer is an annoyed grumble, Craig pokes him in between the eyes, making his eyes pop open. Craig's expression is part exasperated, part tired, and part…something. "You didn't even start it, did you?"

"I _looked_ at it, Jesus," Tweek snaps, irritable. _And then I looked at you and it wasn't much of a contest, you asshole,_ his brain fills in. "Asshole," he repeats out loud. 

"We're gonna start it, come here," Craig informs him, motioning for Tweek to drag his chair around. He's setting his English novel aside and throwing his math book on the table with a thump before he realizes Tweek isn't moving. "Honey?"

"Yyyeahuuuurgh," Tweek drawls in one long, frustrated syllable, but he stands up and drags his chair around to Craig's side of the table with a grating screech, the seat of his chair banging into Craig's. Craig wraps his left arm around Tweek's waist to pull him in close, resting his jaw briefly against the side of Tweek's head like he does sometimes. 

"I didn't even write down what we were supposed to do," Craig sighs. "Evens?"

"Odds," Tweek corrects. He only remembers because he asked someone to repeat it and Kevin Stoley had called him "a fucking odd." He'd been glad he and Craig were in different classes because Craig wasn't supposed to get in any more fights or he'd get kicked out of musical. Tweek, under no such restrictions, kicked the base of Kevin's desk hard enough to make it squeal across the linoleum, and when their teacher asked what the problem was, Tweek lied calmly that Kevin had called him a fag and earned him a day of in-school suspension for hate speech. 

Craig sucks at Pre-Algebra too, but together they puzzle through most of the homework by the time Mrs. Tucker shows up. The jingle of the door's bell startles Tweek to his feet, only to flop back down with an _nngh_ when he sees it's just her. 

"Aren't you two responsible," she praises, coming to look over their shoulders. "Math again? You poor things." She ruffles Craig's hair roughly, and then Tweek's the same way. Craig groans in embarrassment, but Tweek bites his lips and enjoys the show of affection quietly. His own parents aren't very demonstrative, and as a result the casually rough way the Tuckers handle each other sends a little thrill through him every time he's included. Maybe that's the reason he can't stop thinking about Craig's hands on him lately, grabbing his shoulders or squeezing his waist or winding in his hair—

_NO, BAD TWEEK_ , he scolds himself for drifting off, giving a low _heeurgh_ that he hopes Craig and his mother think is about math. He snaps back to reality just as Mrs. Tucker is asking if Tweak has had anything real to eat either.

"No," Craig answers for him, folding his math homework in half before shutting the book on it. "We came right here after musical practice."

"Honestly," Mrs. Tucker says, her mouth set in a thin line. She looks like she'd give either one of Tweek's parents a piece of her mind if they were here, but they aren't, and it wouldn't do any good anyway. It makes Tweek feel nice that she'd try for him, though. "Come over for dinner tomorrow, all right? I'll call your mother."

"Sure," Tweek says, cheeks going warm at being fussed over. "Thanks, nngh, Mrs. Tucker."

"Anytime, sweetie. I'm going to use the ladies' room, and then we have to go." Craig's mother bops the back of his head with her fist, making him hiss a curse at her. "Your sister's waiting in the car, so pack it up, young man."

Craig flips her the middle finger as she heads back to the bathrooms, and Tweek huffs a quiet laugh. The laugh cuts off in a whoosh of air when Craig squeezes him in a one-armed hug. 

"Neither one of us is going to finish all this crap," Craig points out, waving his free hand at their homework. He pinches Tweek's waist where his hand is resting, making Tweek twitch with an _EEK_. "C'mon, split it with me. I'll read the book and tell you what happens if you finish the history outline and let me copy it."

"Ugh, fine," Tweek mutters, like it's a gigantic chore. In reality it's a relief, because Craig's a faster reader while Tweek always gets distracted. The concrete nature of outlining a textbook chapter is a task Tweek has a much better chance of completing. He lets Craig drag him out of the chair as he stands, shoving his math book and English novel into his backpack. Craig drops his book bag on the chair with a small crash that sets Tweek's teeth on edge, then turns to drag him into a hug by the belt loops of his jeans.

"Call me when you're walking home," Craig orders. 

"Nnhnn," Tweek agrees vaguely, preoccupied with how good it feels when Craig hugs him so tightly. Tweek closes his eyes and tries to memorize the tactile details of it, the thump of Craig's heartbeat under his cheek and the smell of his clothes and the strength of his arms, locked around Tweek's back. When Craig steps back, Tweek can't help the soft sigh. 

Craig looks down at him, examining his expression, and Tweek meets his gaze without embarrassment, aside from the intermittent twitching of his eye. It takes roughly half a second for his brain to start running through the checklist of things that are annoyingly attractive about Craig Tucker: his eyes are the clear blue of a sports drink, his cheekbones are getting sharp, his hair is falling in his eyes because he's overdue a haircut. He's growing again, making Tweek want to push up to his toes to press their foreheads together, then their mouths. 

He has it so, so bad for Craig, Tweek thinks in despair. Exhaustion has blunted the sharp edges of his earlier freakout, but can't make it any less true. 

"Something up, babe?" Craig asks. "You keep looking like you're about to say something."

Tweek considers it for a long second. Telling Craig the things that gnaw at him always does make him feel better, and he's so tired right now that it's tempting. It'd be embarrassing that he has all these stupid feelings and Craig doesn't, but Craig wouldn't laugh or freak out. But he shakes his head, deciding no for now. He can handle it himself, and even though he already knows Craig's answer, hearing it out loud would suck probably even worse than this does. 

"You looked really good at practice," Tweek answers, knowing he'll have to say something. It's true, and just embarrassing enough that Craig might buy it as an answer. "You look— _hnngh_ —good when you're having fun. Plus that leather jacket, JESUS."

"You like my jacket?" Craig repeats, eyes widening. Tweek looks away with a low _gaaah_ because he hadn't meant to let that specific information slip out. The statement leaves both of them flustered, not quite meeting each other's eyes, and that's how Craig's mother finds them when she returns from the bathroom. 

"Hope I'm not interrupting," she says archly.

"Christ, Mom, fuck off!" Craig snaps, going pink across his nose. It's so cute that Tweek hates it, and he hates himself for loving it even more, and that's before Craig leans in to quietly order, "Get home safe," and squeeze Tweek's hand one last time. 

Once Craig's safely out of sight, Tweek trudges back behind the counter and lets his head fall down on it with a loud _wham_ and then just leaves it there, groaning softly into the laminate. Two customers come in, community college students judging from the waft of pot, and Tweek doesn't even bother to pick up his head to mutter all the flavors into the counter for the two hundredth time that night. 

But maybe, Tweek thinks on his walk home, phone gently buzzing with Craig's text conversation that's meant to reassure him Tweek's not getting mugged, maybe he'd feel a little better if he talked to someone. He could trust Token, maybe, or Clyde or Jimmy. Not the whole situation, but just about overwhelming impulses in general. It isn't like every other middle school kid isn't having the same puberty catastrophe. 

[Hello??? srsly ur alive right?] Tweek's phone lights up to demand, and Tweek realizes he's missed a whole string of messages from Craig.

[im ok i swear! sorry] Tweek sends back. He isn't ok, not really, but he's fine the way Craig means it, alive and still walking home. [almost there]

[forget history] Craig's next message says followed by a couple explosion emoji. [token says we can copy his go to sleep or youll have a migraine tmrrw too]

A small patch in the center of Tweek's chest burns hot at this evidence of Craig's concern over him. It only makes Tweek more determined to do what he promised, which is why he ends up nursing a mug of coffee at one in the morning as he flips through his text book. He has to read every section two or three times, the words blurring, and in the morning the winter sun makes his brain ache, but when he climbs on the bus, he shoves his crinkled notebook pages into Craig's hands with a proud grin. 

"You're a moron," Craig says in exasperation, but he tucks the pages into his binder with the same deliberate care that he tucks Tweek in against his side with, an arm around his waist. He presses his cheek against Tweek's hair. "But thanks. How's your head?"

"M'ok," Tweek slurs, already half-asleep against Craig's shoulder and ready to doze the rest of the bus ride. If he just keeps telling himself that he is ok, that he will be, maybe eventually he can make it true.


	2. Tell Me More, Tell Me More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Clyde a lot. Also the chicken broccoli casserole is real, it's a thing my mom makes with rice on the bottom and this cheesy goo on top, and after it sits overnight in the fridge the leftovers are like some disastrously good drug.

Later that day in survey period, Tweek sits next to Clyde, sneaking glances at him. The two of them have art rotation this marking period, and both of them suck at it as their teacher informs them frequently. Tweek is a capable sketch artist but always gets distracted before he can finish something the whole way, and Clyde is actually terrible. He's sure cheerful about it, though, whistling as he sketches a bowl of fruit that looks like a kindergartner drew it. A kindergartener in a post-apocalyptic world who had never seen a real banana in his life. 

Tweek desperately wants to talk to someone, and Clyde is a good friend. Unfortunately Clyde is also Craig's best friend, so Tweek is still weighing his options. Token would be more ideal and less likely to blurt anything Tweek says to him out to Craig, but Token has computer programming this rotation. 

Clyde's ok, Tweek decides. He's a sweet guy, he'll probably answer honestly, and he might rag on Tweek but not meanly. Clyde's also been harboring a painful crush on Bebe since the third grade, even through the times when Bebe looks at Clyde like he's an annoying bug. Tweek sort of gets that, though. 

"What do you think about my banana?" Clyde asks, startling Tweek out of his thoughts. Tweek just stares at him until Clyde's eyes widen. "Dude! No homo."

"Uuugh," Tweek says, eyes down on shading his own drawn bowl with the edge of his pencil. It's easier to start talking when he isn't looking at Clyde. "I wanna—erk—ask you something. You like Bebe, right?"

"Oh yeah," Clyde says, resting his chin on his hand. "She's so hot. And her boobs, right? Well, I guess you don't care about those."

Tweek refrains from trying to correct, for the hundredth time, that he can date Craig and still appreciate boobs. "Ok, but do you _like_ her?"

Clyde tilts his head. "What's the difference?"

"Because you, shit, used to like her different." Tweek tries to gather his scattered thoughts together but it's like trying to hold too many pet mice at once. "In elementary, augh, you liked _her_. Now you like— _Jesus Christ_ —her tits."

"Her tits are her, though," Clyde argues reasonably. "They're not, like, free-floating tits. Tits in a vacuum." Clyde pauses, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Tits in a Vacuum would be a really good movie title."

"EEERGH." Tweek shudders, dropping his pencil and watching it roll off the edge of the table. " _No_. But she didn't like _you_ , back then. Shit." Tweek hadn't meant to say it like that. Clyde shrugs it off, though, unoffended.

"Nope," he agrees. 

"And now she's kind of into it." Clyde looks up, more interested in this conversation suddenly; Tweek struggles not to look away, just to get through his thought. "Is that ok, man? When you were just you she, ugh, didn't care, but now HORMONES and your butt's cute so it's different?"

"You think my butt's cute?" Clyde twists, trying to see it for himself, looking pleased by that. "Nice."

"CLYDE," Tweek says in despair. Why did he think this would help again?

"I mean, it's fine, isn't it?" Clyde slides off his stool, grabs Tweek's pencil from the ground, and hands it back to him. "If I like her and she likes me even a little, even just my butt or whatever, who cares?"

"But you like each other _different_ ," Tweek insists, punctuating it with a frustrated, " _eeeeurgh_."

"Dude," Clyde says, looking Tweek over. "If you wanna ask me something about Craig and you, just do it. I'm dumb but I'm not _dumb_."

"Fuck," Tweek groans, defeated. He stares at his hands, fingers clenched tightly, skin cracking from winter across his knuckles. "I like Craig. Like uuuuugh SHIT like."

"I know, man," Clyde says. He slides his stool a little closer so they can talk without anyone else overhearing. Tweek wants to tell him he isn't dumb at all, just a kind of smart that doesn't have to do with math tests, but he doesn't want to interrupt their conversation now that it might actually be going somewhere. 

"No, it's different, nngh, than it used to be." Tweek drags a hand through his hair, cheeks burning. "I keep thinking weird shit, like, CHRIST, like aliens are beaming shit into my brain!"

"It's not aliens, bud," Clyde laughs. He makes his voice deeper like he's doing a horror movie trailer. "It's worse: it's THE PUBERTY. Seriously, yesterday Mrs. Forney said 'mastication' and I had some weird feelings about that, I don't mind telling you. It sucks for everyone, dude."

"Not Craig," Tweek said miserably. He thought of Craig's irritation with Jimmy and Clyde watching porn on his laptop. "What if I changed and he doesn't? What if, oh god, we _both_ change? Whatifwe end up HATING each other?! AAAGH."

"Craig has hormones too, I promise," Clyde chuckles. Tweek bites his lip to keep from arguing, because he _knows_ that, but it doesn't mean Craig has hormones about him. "He's probably got more testosterone pumping through him than Mr. Garrison. He had his first growth spurt before any of us, remember?"

"Uh, YEAH," Tweek blurts before he can stop himself. Clyde's nose twitches from trying not to laugh, like a rabbit, but he pats Tweek's shoulder. 

"I'm sure it's fine," Clyde soothes. "You two will work it out, you always do. Dumb shit like hormones can't break up South Park's best couple."

"Uuuugh," Tweek mutters, because he isn't so sure. 

Clyde is staring at him with a shit-eating grin, Tweek realizes. "What?" 

"You're Bebe," he says, making Tweek tilt his head. "In your example, you're Bebe and Craig is me, and you think Craig's butt is cute and you wanna hit iiiiiiit."

"OHMYGOD," Tweek shrieks, throwing his pencil at Clyde's face and making everyone look at him as he melts off the stool and just lies on the floor in a heap, hoping for death. 

When Craig picks him up at his locker for lunch, Tweek still feels out of whack, but Craig looks relaxed and neutral, the same as he ever does, maybe a tiny bit fond when he catches Tweek's eye. Sometimes Tweek hates, _hates_ how calm Craig seems, like nothing can unbalance him. Tweek knows that's not really true, that things do upset or excite Craig too, that it's just the face he chooses to show everyone, but sometimes it's really annoying that he can even fake it so believably. Meanwhile, Tweek feels like his stupid, suffocating feelings are strong enough to level the whole middle school. 

"Babe, you're crushing my hand," Craig comments, although he makes no move to pull away. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Tweek says. _No_ , he thinks. Craig doesn't press him, but he does let go of Tweek's hand, provoking a split-second of panic in Tweek. Before he can even open his mouth, though, Craig's arm is around his waist instead, casually possessive. Tweek whines a soft, helpless noise that he hopes desperately Craig didn't hear. 

"Mom packed us both lunch," Craig says, making Tweek look up at him in mild surprise. "She was pretty burnt up last night about you not having dinner. I told her she didn't have much room to talk since we didn't eat until practically Tricia's bedtime, and she sure didn't appreciate that." Craig snorts; Tweek feels a flicker of a smile tug at his mouth. "Anyway, you're still coming over tonight, right? I don't even have practice today, so you can come home with me to hang out if you want."

"Yes," Tweek says quickly. He frowns at himself for sounding clingy. Craig stops them just before they go into the cafeteria and looks down to look Tweek over. Tweek expects him to ask again what's wrong or if there's something he wants to talk about, but he doesn't. 

"Good," is all he says, and then they go to lunch. 

After school, they spend a tame afternoon on Craig's couch, Craig exhausted from musical practice and Tweek exhausted from feelings. Sometimes Tweek thinks about how all the neighborhood kids used to spend whole days running around outside playing crazy games and fighting each other plus the occasional aliens or Nazi zombies, and he wonders where they got all that energy. Last Sunday they went to the park to shoot hoops with Kyle and Stan and barely lasted a couple hours before everyone wandered off, claiming homework and chores. 

"You want a turn?" Craig asks, eyes on the screen and fingers occupied with his controller. 

"I'm good," Tweek answers. He likes watching the story as Craig plays but finds the mechanics of first person shooters disorienting. He's happy to be tucked in against Craig's side, shoulders and hips pressed together, the blanket from the back of the couch wrapped around their shoulders, the rhythmic clicking and vibrating of Craig's controller soothing white noise. "Do you think we'll finish this side plot before dinner? I wanna know what happens."

"Hope so, but that last one was long as shit," Craig says. He grunts in satisfaction as he takes down a hard to reach sniper. Ten minutes later he groans, his character standing in front of a locked area, and when Tweek asks what, answers, "I've been stuck on this stupid door lock for two days, so I gave up and went to finish other quests but now I have to go through. I swear I collected all the clues for it, but when I move the parts around, it just plays this dumb song and nothing happens. Look."

Craig diddles with his controller, his character moving around pieces of the wood carvings of the door. Sure enough, five seconds' worth of music plays. 

"That's the background music from the cave," Tweek says. Craig turns and looks at him, brow wrinkled. "You don't remember? It's so repetitive I kept humming it after I watched you play that whole boss, _ugh_. It goes like," Tweek hums a few more notes, then stops. "Wait, don't you have a flute in your inventory? Gimme that."

Tweek snatches the controller out of Craig's hands and clicks through a few wrong menus before he gets the one he wants, and sure enough, selecting the flute brings up an option to play it. Tweek taps through all the buttons on the controller to see where the pitches are, and after a few false starts warbles through another five seconds of the same song he's been humming. 

"HAH!" he barks in triumph when the game cuts to an animation of the door unlocking. When he turns his head, Craig is staring at him, eyes wide. "Eh?"

"You're _amazing_ ," Craig tells him, low and intense. The urge to kiss him rises up in Tweek's throat almost like he's going to be sick, and he shoves the controller back into Craig's hands, turning back to the television, face burning. After a long second, Craig goes back to playing his game quietly. Tweek struggles to keep his breathing steady even while his heart is racing, mentally cursing himself out for being such a goddamn spaz. 

Soon after that Tricia gets home from elementary's later dismissal time, flopping on the couch on Tweek's other side with a casual, "Hey, dickwads." Craig's mother rolls in not long after, clutching two reusable grocery bags and looking somewhat frazzled.

"How can a town this small have so much traffic?" she asks. All three kids grunt, none of them looking up from the television. "I'm so glad you're using your free afternoon to catch up with your homework. How's that English novel coming, young man?"

"Give me a break, Jesus," Craig complains. "Yell at Tricia, she called us dickwads."

"Snitches get stitches, Craig!" Tricia shrieks, aiming a kick at Craig that Tweek unfortunately takes the brunt of. Mrs. Tucker just rolls her eyes. 

"Tricia, come help with the brownie mix while I get the rest of dinner started," she orders, already brushing past them towards the kitchen. 

Tricia flips off her mother's back. "No way! Just because I'm the girl, I have to?"

"Gah, I'll help," Tweek announces, sliding off the couch and ignoring Craig's raised eyebrow. He's not really in the mood to sit between Craig and Tricia kicking each other. Baking, even instant baking, usually has a soothing effect on him, so maybe he'll be able to keep from humiliating himself in front of Craig's family. 

"Suit yourself, honey," Craig shrugs, not moving a muscle. 

Mrs. Tucker hands Tweek the box of brownie mix without comment when he comes into the kitchen and then a glass mixing bowl from the high cabinet. Tweek knows where everything else is and gets the oil and eggs himself. The two of them work in companionable silence for just long enough for Tweek to get all the ingredients into the bowl before Craig's mother speaks up. 

"Tweek, honey, can we talk for a minute?" she asks. Tweek looks up, brow furrowed, but Mrs. Tucker's gaze is focused on the broccoli she's chopping. Craig does that too, Tweek thinks distantly, keeps his hands busy while he has a conversation he doesn't want to have. "I've noticed…well. You boys are getting older and it seems like you might be starting to…experiment."

"AAGH," Tweek screeches, dropping the bowl on the counter with a hard _whunk_. Fortunately brownie batter is too thick to splash. "NO! We're, eergh, not!"

"All right," Mrs. Tucker soothes, looking up from the broccoli to meet Tweek's eyes. Tweek's gaze drops to his hands, clutched tight around the mixing bowl. "But if you are, that would be all right, too. I'm just worried about you boys because it isn't like South Park is rolling in appropriate models of a healthy gay relationship."

Flushed bright red, Tweek stares at the brownies so hard he's surprised the chocolate chunks aren't melting, willing this exchange to be over. Is he so obvious about his trashfire feelings that even his boyfriend's mom is offering advice?

"Normally I'd say this should be the sort of thing Craig's father handles," Mrs. Tucker sighs deeply, "but frankly he's not half the expert about women that he thinks he is, and what he knows about gay sex could fit on my pinkie. And I'm sorry to say, but I doubt your parents would be any more helpful. Would they?"

" _No_ ," Tweek mutters with feeling. " _Eck_ , they would _not_."

"I know this is embarrassing, sweetie." Craig's mother goes back to chopping while she talks. "But I'm worried you two will have questions and end up learning weird things from terrible online porn. My mother never would have talked about sex with me, and cheap romance novels did not do the job, let me tell you. I don't want it to be like that for you boys. I already told this to Craig, not that he wanted to hear it, and now I'm telling you. It's all right to ask me questions, I promise. I can't promise that I'll know all the answers, but I promise I'll help you find the right ones."

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Tweek groans, squirming, and then, very quietly he adds, "Thankyou."

Mrs. Tucker reaches over and ruffles his hair, hard enough to make Tweek bite his lip. She turns on the radio after that to fill in the awkward silence, and both of them go back to work. Craig trudges in the kitchen a few minutes later and takes one look at Tweek's red face before groaning. 

"Mom, you didn't!" he snaps, putting his hands on Tweek's shoulders. Even the light touch makes Tweek jump almost out of his skin. "I told you to back off! Tweek looks like he's about to die!" He gathers Tweek in closer protectively; Tweek can't do anything with his hands, sticky with chocolate, but he presses his cheek against Craig's shoulder, reassuring himself with the contact. "And you got broccoli thingies in his hair!"

"If you can't talk about it, then you shouldn't be doing it," Craig's mother sniffed, back in no-nonsense mom mode. They flip each other off as Craig roughly brushes broccoli bits out of Tweek's hair. Tweek tries not to enjoy it, fails, and hopes he just looks like he isn't. 

"I'mFINE," Tweek insists. Craig eyes him, dubious, but when Tweek just stares back, he gives up and goes to find the pan for the brownies. 

Dinner is fine, Mrs. Tucker acting like their conversation never happened, and Tweek's mouth too full for him to say anything mortifying. Mrs. Tucker makes this chicken broccoli casserole that is Tweek's absolute favorite, and she scoops him out seconds without asking when his plate is nearly empty. Craig and his dad are arguing about basketball and end up shouting at each other, but that's pretty normal too, and Tweek doesn't bat an eye at it. Afterwards, Tricia gets nailed with doing the dishes while Craig and Tweek get packed off with bowls of warm brownies and ice cream, and Craig gives Tweek another one of those 'you're amazing' looks that makes Tweek's skin crawl pleasantly. 

"Tweek helped make dinner while you were exercising your right to imitate your father on the couch," Mrs. Tucker announces when Tricia shrieks about it. She ignores the "HEY!" from her husband and gives both boys a raised eyebrow. "Don't look so smug, boys, you've got half an hour until Tweek needs to head home, and not a second more."

"My room," Craig orders, grabbing Tweek by the wrist and hustling him away. 

"Door open!" his mother calls, making Tweek cringe. 

"Quit fussing over them and hand me a brownie," Craig's father complains. "What's he gonna do, knock Tweek up?"

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Craig groans, his grip on Tweek's wrist tightening until it hurts a little, hustling him up the stairs. They make it into Craig's room without spilling either their brownies or Tweek down the stairs, somehow. Craig slams the door shut for effect, then slumps against it, cheeks bright pink and glaring at the carpet. "Sorry, dude."

"It's ok," Tweek says, and he means it. "It's kindanice? When he says the same stuff like if you brought a girl home."

"You're not my girlfriend," Craig snaps, venomous. 

"NO, argh!" Tweek shakes his head. He stares at his the bowl of ice cream in his hands, trying to put his thought into words. "Just like I'm a normal, ECK, date you brought home. When he isn't trying so hard to say EXACTLY the right thing. Shit, neverMIND."

Craig stares at Tweek, mouth open a little. Tweek shoves a spoonful of brownie and ice cream in his mouth to keep from saying anything else to add to both their embarrassment. Craig brushes past him and crawls up onto his bed, leaving an obvious space for Tweek. Tweek follows cautiously, careful not to spill any of his melting ice cream on Craig's bedspread. 

"Wanna watch something?" Craig asks. Tweek shrugs, amenable to whatever. Craig flips on his television and they spend ten minutes scrolling through bad Netflix choices. They're both done with their desserts before Craig tosses the remote aside again. "Ugh, everything sucks. Is it really gay that I want to just finish the English novel?"

"Yeah." Tweek huffs a laugh. Craig takes Tweek's empty bowl and stacks it with his own as he's struggling off the bed, then stomps downstairs with all the grace of an elephant to find the book. Tweek stays right where he is, sucking a smear of chocolate off the back of his thumb. 

Tweek's eyes drift to the ceiling to the familiar scatter of plastic stars they stuck up there the summer before fifth grade, Tweek handing stars up to Craig because he was too short to reach the ceiling himself even on a chair. They'd gotten bored immediately of real constellations, with the result that the Big Dipper and Orion are surrounded by original creations like the Toilet Plunger and the Manbearpig. Craig keeps threatening to take them down and put real constellations up, but every time the putty gives out and a star falls, he hauls the desk chair over and sticks it back up exactly where it was before. The return noise of Craig on the stairs draws Tweek out of his thoughts. 

"Got it," Craig says, holding the book, and he's also got Stripe #4, who he drops on Tweek's chest along with the faded bath towel that serves as Stripe's blanket. Stripe wheeks happily at Tweek as Craig crawls back into his original spot. "He's mad I've been ignoring him all week."

"Poor Stripe," Tweek commiserates, feeling a little guilty he hasn't been over to play with Stripe in a while either. He rubs behind Stripe's ears and Stripe purrs obligingly, so he can't be that mad. "Dad's too busy, huh?"

"Tell it to the musical director," Craig bitches, all situated. He pulls a carrot stick out of his hoodie pocket to give Stripe, rubs Stripe's nose affectionately with his knuckle, and then does the same to Tweek's nose, making him squeak and slap Craig's hand away. "You're his dad too, you come over and get him out if you feel so bad."

Tweek thought Craig meant he was going to read to himself and brought Stripe up for Tweek to entertain himself, so Tweek startles a little when Craig starts reading the book out loud instead. Craig pauses, looking over at Tweek in question. 

"It's ok," Tweek says quickly. "Nng, like an audiobook." He shifts in closer, his cheek against Craig's shoulder, so that he can see the page too. "You don't have to, eeurgh, do it out loud just for me, though."

"It's better for me too." Craig's voice is quiet, mumbled. Tweek's thought for a while that Craig might have some mild dyslexia, or something, but Craig is sensitive about it so Tweek never mentions it unless Craig does first. "Yesterday my mom made me sit at the table and read out loud to her so she could tell I was really doing it and it kind of…helped? I didn't have to reread or get distracted as much."

"Ok," Tweek shrugs. He's surely happy to let Craig do it, curled up against Craig's side, Stripe munching busily on his chest. Craig's voice is nice, even though it cracks once in a while, the funny noise making Stripe purr and Tweek snicker. Tweek's eyes drift half closed, the page a white blur, but he's probably getting more out of Craig's voice than he would trying to read it himself anyway. 

They're a chapter from the end when Craig's father comes up the stairs, no quieter than Craig does it. Craig sits up suddenly, like he does whenever he thinks his dad will think whatever they're doing is too gay. Caught off-guard by the sudden movement, Tweek goes awkwardly face down into Craig's pillow with an _ECK_ of surprise. 

"Tweek, kiddo, time to head out." Mr. Tucker hovers in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, like he's a little embarrassed too. "Snow's let up some. You want a ride?"

"NO, I'mok," Tweek answers quickly, sitting up and shoving Stripe and his blanket into Craig's hands. Stripe squeaks his displeasure, scrambling with his back feet, and Tweek empathizes. Craig and his dad both looking awkward makes Tweek feel awkward too, which is ridiculous but real. They weren't even doing any boyfriend shit! 

"Call me when you're home," Craig says as they head down the stairs, making Tweek pause, one hand on the rail for balance, and look back at him. Craig bumps into him lightly. "Ugh, watch it, klutz. Anyway, I'll read the rest of it."

"You don't have to," Tweek says, even though for some reason he really, really wants Craig to do that. 

"Shut up, it's almost done anyway," Craig replies gruffly, nudging Tweek into motion again. In the living room, he hands Stripe to Tricia on the couch with a warning glare before walking Tweek to the door. He shoves his feet into his sneakers while Tweek is tying on his boots and walks out to the stoop with him, shutting the door behind them for as much privacy as sixth graders can manage. 

It's so cold Tweek's cheeks are stinging after two seconds, but he can barely feel that when Craig hugs him goodbye tightly. One of Craig's hands drags through Tweek's hair, and Tweek shudders in surprise. 

"It's sticking up all over," Craig grumbles quietly. "My dad probably thinks it's sex hair."

"Uuugh, CRAIG," Tweek snaps, squirming. Craig gives him a last squeeze and lets him go, smirking at Tweek's glare. "You're the gay asshole who wanted—AGH—to read our English book! Jesus Christ!"

For some reason, this sets Craig off laughing. "I am! Shit, that really is gay." He laughs harder than Tweek's seen him do in a while, the sound of it echoing in the snowy silence of the street. He grins at Tweek, eyes damp and bright. "You're just as gay for liking it."

"Shut UP," Tweek wails, face on fire as he turns and stomps off the stoop and out to the sidewalk. He calls a last "ASSHOLE" over his shoulder for emphasis, only belatedly realizing a ton of Craig's neighbors probably heard that. Hunching his shoulders up to his ears, Tweek scuttles faster along the sidewalk. 

He gets home safe—he only trips over his bootlaces once—and shakes off a bunch of smalltalk questions from his parents about the Tuckers as quickly as he can. Upstairs, he's calling Craig before he's even done changing into his pajamas, only realizing how awkward that is when Craig's casual, "Hi babe," is ringing in his ears. 

Fuck, he's _not wearing pants_. Craig will KNOW. "HI," Tweek blurts, and promptly trips trying to get his foot into his pants' leg. "AAUGH."

"Don't die, honey," Craig chuckles; Tweek glares at his phone and drops it on the bed so he can haul his pajama pants up without any more disaster. "Switch to Facetime? Or like this?"

Tweek considers as he takes the phone with him to go brush his teeth. It's best if he can't get distracted by Craig's dumb face, he guesses. "Like this."

It's not quite as good as being pressed against Craig's side, but it's still nice to have Craig's monotone reading voice washing over him. Tweek curls up on his side with his phone on speaker on the pillow and lets his eyes fall shut, pretending Craig is next to him. When they get to the end, Tweek's a little sorry it's over, even if he liked the book less than Craig apparently did. An awkward silence falls after Craig reads the last words. 

"Babe?" Craig breaks it first. His voice is a little rough from reading out loud and Tweek adds it to the list of things he likes annoyingly hard. "You fall asleep?"

"Nnnn," Tweek mutters, eyes still shut. He swallows the urge to ask Craig not to stop, to just start the book over or something. Why is he so _embarrassing?_

"Do you want to…never mind," Craig cuts himself off, voice flat. Tweek can picture the face he's making, the blank resting bitchface covering up his discomfort. 

"Yes," Tweek agrees. 

"I didn't ask you anything." Tweek thinks _Still yes_ but holds his breath so that he won't say it out loud. Craig sighs, barely audible. "We could read the next book together. On purpose."

"What if, mm, you don't like the next one?" Tweek asks. 

"Still have to read it. And I like almost all of them." There's a pause where Tweek, and no doubt Craig too, thinks of all the times Craig's made fun of the class novels with all the other boys. "Don't you fucking dare tell anyone that."

"Your secret identity's safe with me, super nerd," Tweek teases, warmth blooming in his chest at Craig's snort of laughter. "Tell me why you liked this one."

And he does. Craig spends minutes on end talking about characters he liked and ones he didn't, how he guessed a plot twist, other things the story made him think of. He'll never say any of this in class, Tweeks knows, partially because Craig thinks he'll sound dumb and partially because he hates their English teacher this year, who has kicked him out of class at least a dozen times for infractions ranging from cursing to 'making insubordinate faces.' He's got a D in English right now, and Tweek feels a dull sort of anger that this one stupid woman won't ever get to hear Craig talk about foreshadowing and character growth, and even if Craig tried, she probably still wouldn't change her mind about him. 

"Honey?" Craig's voice draws Tweek back out of his thoughts. "Did you really fall asleep this time?"

Tweek holds his breath; he's not sure why. 

"You're way too cute," Craig mutters to himself. Tweek goes tense all over, the soft beep of the call disconnecting making him jump. It buzzes with a text a minute later, the vibration of it against his fingers matching the irregular fluttering of his heart. 

[u fell asleep on me babe. i know im boring but damn. See u on the bus ♥ ]

"Heart?" Tweek reads out loud, wondering what that means. Craig virtually never uses emoji, so adding one there might as well be an Egyptian hieroglyphic. Tweek turns his phone sideways, upside-down, and back again, but it's still a heart. Groaning a frustrated "Gaaah," Tweek tosses his phone off his bed and rolls onto his side, wishing he had actually fallen asleep instead of just pretending to.


	3. What Will They Say Monday At School

The sex talk with Craig's mother sticks with Tweek, but probably not the way she meant it to. For the next two weeks, every time Tweek starts having any questionable thoughts about Craig, the deep awkwardness of his conversation with Mrs. Tucker settles over him again, killing his mood immediately. Things return almost to normal because of this; Tweek is able to meet Craig's eyes with a clear head again, staying relaxed when Craig wraps an arm around his waist or hugs him suddenly. 

"You're relaxed lately," Craig comments at lunch when Tweek eats half his fries without spilling ketchup all over himself. Tweek shrugs; he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop the entire time. Meanwhile he's going to cuddle against Craig's side shamelessly and also steal his fries. 

"Yeah, you two have been a little gross," Token comments from across the table. "You two take it to the next level finally or something?"

"Did we WHAT?" Tweek demands. He flushes hot when Craig's fingers shift against his hip. " _Eeergh._ "

"Thanks so much, asshole," Craig accuses Token, who shrugs. "Nothing happened, not that it's any of your business." To Tweek he adds, "Relax, honey." 

Tweek tries, but it's hard to drag his attention away from the feel of Craig's fingertips, from the thought of him dragging them up, just a bit higher, under Tweek's T-shirt, warm against Tweek's skin—

" _Tweek_ ," Craig snaps, making Tweek yelp. "Earth to space Tweek! Forget I said anything, geez."

"Well, I think it's nice," Butters speaks up. He sits with them on and off, when he isn't being bossed around by Cartman or gossiping with the girls. He offers Tweek a sweet smile when Tweek meets his eyes for a second. "How you don't care who sees you bein' sweet on each other. I could name a couple other guys wouldn't hurt them none to be more honest about their feelings."

"Honest, urgh," Tweek echoes dully. The pit in the bottom of his stomach where he keeps shoving his big ugly feelings throbs like a deep bruise. "Right."

"Want me to k-kick McCormick's a-HAAA-ass?" Jimmy asks conversationally. 

"I'd get in on that," Craig puts in. Tweek gives him a dirty look. "What?"

"Aw, shucks, thanks fellas," Butters waves them off. "If just taking a beatin' would get the message through, I'd sockbat that moron myself. 'Fraid he's gonna have to figure it out his own self."

"Why?" Tweek blurts, making everyone look at him. "What's, ugh, what'sthepoint?! If he doesn't want what you want, it can't work!"

"Kenny likes boys too," Token points out. 

"I don't think there's much McCormick wouldn't hit," Craig adds, wrinkling his nose.

"NO, that's not what I MEAN." Tweek balls up his fists in frustration. "GNAAH. Butters wants someone serious. Kenny wants to fuck around! They're completely— _augh_ —incompatible. Justgiveup!"

"Yup! It's a problem, all right," Butters agrees cheerfully. Tweek grinds his teeth, not getting how Butters can be so calm about a situation so similar to Tweek's, when Tweek feels like he's going all to pieces half the time, or half to pieces all the time. "But I ain't ready to quit on it just yet. I made my choice for now, and I'm just fine with that. I told him how I felt, and that's all I can do, y'know?"

Tweek slumps more limply against Craig's side, all the fight whooshing out of him like a popped balloon. Feeling like you just got owned by Leopold Butters Stotch is not a good feeling. 

"Dude, what do you care about what Butters does?" Craig asks after lunch, walking Tweek to seventh period. Tweek shrugs a shoulder, listless. "Don't give me that, babe. Eyes up here."

Tweek drags his next step to a halt, letting Craig turn him by the shoulders so they're facing each other directly. He pulls his gaze up from the floor to meet Craig's; Craig's face is blank, but his eyes are honed in on Tweek, liquid with concern. Butters thinks just being honest is enough, but he doesn't understand at all; Kenny is a fuckboy, at least the way he is now, and Butters is probably better off without him. Craig is everything, cute and strong and for some reason willing to tolerate all of Tweek's perpetual disasters. There's no telling if he'd stick around if Tweek said that wasn't enough. Be honest? Tweek isn't dumb or brave enough to risk that kind of fairy tale bullshit, not even close. 

"It's annoying to watch," Tweek mutters, hoping Craig accepts that as a plausible reason for Tweek's frustration. 

"Then ignore them," Craig advises. "I do. Honestly, I try to ignore Butters as much as I can because I bet that kid is into some fucked up shit. If he and McCormick really did get together they'd probably—"

" _Craig_ ," Tweek screeches, because that is NOT helping. His brain coughs up an image of Butters done up like Marjorine, and he shudders softly. Craig is smirking at him.

" _Tweek_ ," Craig echoes his tone back at him. No, it's worse, he isn't smirking, he's smiling, the small one at the corner of his mouth that makes Tweek want to kiss him insanely badly. "That's one of my favorite things about you."

" _What_?!" Tweek grounds out, a shiver of adrenaline working its way out to his fingertips at the sound of Craig calling him his favorite. 

"Emotional intelligence." Craig says it so matter-of-factly that Tweek blinks at him. "Mr. Richardson says I don't have any and that's why my acting sucks. But you do. It bugs you to see anybody get hurt, even an asshole like Butters. That's why I can ignore them and you can't."

"Nnnngh, it _sucks_ ," Tweek says, glaring at his boots as he drags the toe of it across the floor, making it squeak obnoxiously. Being self-aware sure isn't getting him anywhere lately. "Wish I had LESS."

"And if I had skis I'd be a snowmobile," Craig replies, making Tweek choke a laugh. He pauses, like he's going to say something else, but the tardy bell shrills, and Craig scrunches his face in annoyance. He hugs Tweek a quick goodbye. "Later, honey. Don't freak out during math."

"Don't get kicked out of English," Tweek says. He swallows a sigh when Craig mutters a frustrated, "Fat chance," into his hair. 

Neither of them make it. Tweek gets told to put a homework problem on the board that he knows is wrong on his paper and ends up dissolving into frustrated tears before he's allowed to slink back to his seat in the back corner. When he sneaks a look at his phone under his desk, there's a text from Craig that says he's been sent out to cool off in the hall. The phone buzzes in his hand with another message while he's looking.

[fuck everything lets run away and breed giant g pigs in peru]

[cant i habe work] Tweek answers slowly, trying not to look like he's texting. He's probably failing at it, but their teacher seems to be ignoring him after the board incident. [u hav musival]

[fuck musical to im gay enough] 

Tweek huffs a tiny laugh. He jams his phone back in his pocket before he gets yelled at for that too and spends the rest of the period doodling guinea pigs on his homework paper stomping on tiny stick figure people and eating them. At least it's Friday, Craig's face showing the same tired relief as Tweek feels when they meet at Craig's locker at the end of the day. Craig still has musical practice, which sucks, because Tweek would give anything in the whole world to curl up on Craig's couch with Netflix. 

"Practice isn't until five," Craig says. He waits until Tweek's hand is captured in his own before he asks, "Bunch of us are going to grab some food. Wanna come split a milkshake with me?"

"Aaagh," Tweek groans, in no mood for large groups. A closer look at Craig's pinched expression shows that he isn't feeling it either, and is probably asking for backup. " _Fine_. But I want my own milkshake!"

"Deal," Craig agrees, squeezing Tweek's hand. He stares a second too long, but shakes it off and pulls Tweek along before he can ask about it. 

The Village Inn isn't busy in the middle of the afternoon, so they have no trouble taking over a couple of the big circular booths. Most of the musical cast is there, the girls mainly in one booth and the boys in the other. Tweek ends up squashed in the center between Craig and Clyde, watching as Jimmy makes Butters laugh hard enough to shoot Sprite out his nose. Stan's at their table too, on tech crew because he's been banned from singing on stage, and Token is along for the ride like Tweek. Tweek orders a chocolate milkshake and Craig gets strawberry; Craig's arm is warm behind Tweek's shoulders where its stretched across the back of the booth. It's not the worst. 

When all the musical kids have to head back to school in a tired, whiny mob, Token and Tweek are left behind; Token offers to walk Tweek to work since his house is roughly in the same direction.

"You've got it so bad," Token says without preamble, making Tweek trip over an uneven patch in the sidewalk. 

"What?! Me?!" Tweek narrows his eyes at Token. "Erg, I've got what?"

"For Craig, stupid." Token rolls his eyes when Tweek splutters a denial. "Dude, you let him dip his french fries in your milkshake. That's like Clyde for Bebe level gone."

"It is NOT," Tweek mutters, dropping his eyes to the sidewalk. "You can't dip fries in strawberry!"

"Nobody should be dipping fries in any milkshake!" Token protests in mild disgust. It's an ongoing argument between them, a thing born South Park townie kids do that Token will never understand, like setting cow poop on fire or holding your breath when you drive through a tunnel. Token shoulders Tweek, face sly. "So you let him dip his french fry in your milkshake yet?"

For a second, Tweek doesn't get it, and then when he does he flushes so red he gets lightheaded. 

"OhmyGOD," Tweek shrieks, shoving Token so hard he nearly takes a spill into the bushes. "Jesus Christ! Fuck off!"

"Relax, man," Token laughs it off, dusting snow off his coat sleeve. "It's no big—"

"He'snotinterestedanyway." Tweek twitches hard when he realizes that he muttered that out loud. He hopes Token didn't hear it, but alas, they're all trained from picking up the crap Kenny mutters into his parka hood. 

"Craig?" Token asks. Tweek won't look at him, but he sounds incredulous. "No way. He's crazy about you." 

Tweek shrugs, kicking a rock and watching it skitter into the street. He knows that, but not the way that he wants it to be true. Token puts a hand on his shoulder; Tweek hunches his shoulders up protectively. He never knows what to say when he's alone with Token, who should be just as much Tweek's friend but somehow always feels more like Craig's, to Tweek. He knows Token would be hurt if Tweek ever told him that. 

"What's up with you? Are you guys fighting?" Token says. Tweek side-eyes him, giving a sharp shake of his head. Token sighs. "I never know what's up with you two. I can't ever help because neither one of you will be straight with me."

" _Duh_ ," Tweek retorts without thinking, and after a beat both of them laugh. The tension between them eases a little, if not Tweek's anxiety about how close they are to the topic of his feelings for Craig. Trying to give Token an out, Tweek shrugs. "S'fine. Nothing to help. We're just, ACK, it's just like this."

"Like _what_?" Token demands, stubborn. Token's smart, sharp with subtleties, and serious about his friends, so Tweek knows he's in trouble. "You got weird when I made a sex joke. You said you haven't done it yet, though. For sure it's not Craig pressuring you."

"How do you know?!" Tweek demands, out of temper with the prying, even though Token is 100% correct. 

Token just rolls his eyes. "Because you've been dating for three years and still aren't doing it. Also, because Craig." Tweek is opening his mouth to sigh a "yeah," assuming Token is commenting on Craig's complete lack of interest in that stuff, but instead Token adds, "Half our conversations revolve around him being worried he's doing something that stresses you out."

"He…is?" Tweek cringes. He shoves his fists deeper into his coat pockets, knuckling at the lining as he chews on that. It's not hard to believe he's being weirder than usual lately, and equally easy to believe Craig watches him closely enough to have picked up on it. 

"Let me guess, you're worried you're stressing him out?" Token asks. Tweek can't help his deer-in-the-headlights stare. "Uh-huh. Jesus." Token leans his head back and watches the snow fall on them for a long minute, like he's thinking. "It is a sex thing, right?"

"Sorta," Tweek mumbles. He's not in a hurry to explain to Token that they've definitely done less than Token and everybody else thinks. They haven't even French kissed, for fuck's sake. Last year at Nichole's birthday party they spent their Seven Minutes in Heaven making ridiculous faces at Craig's phone for badly-lit pair shots and blinding themselves with the flash. 

"But you think Craig's not into it. Whatever 'it' is. Please don't tell me what it is."

"He's NOT," Tweek insists. They're at the corner just before Tweak Bros. Coffee, Tweek glancing anxiously left and right at the cars passing by, kicking up slush. " _Erk_."

"You could ask him? And I know you didn't, you know how I know?" Token stops walking and catches at Tweek's coat sleeve. He tugs until Tweek half-turns and makes at least minimal eye contact. "Because last week I had this same conversation, the _exact same_ conversation, with Craig, on this exact corner. He made me swear on my nutsack not to tell you what he told me, but I didn't swear I wouldn't tell you that we talked, so I'm telling you now. Because both of you are stressing _me_ out, so could you pull your shit together?"

Tweek's brain grinds like a flooded engine, trying to take in what Token is telling him. He can only manage an uncertain, " _Heeeurgh_."

"Tweekers, man, you're so smart and so dumb at the same time." Token raises both hands to clap Tweek on both shoulders, hard. "Be good at work. And then when you call Craig on your walk home, just _ask_ him whatever it is. Because, in case you somehow don't know this, Craig has it just as bad as you. He's gonna tell you yes. I can't think of anything he'd tell you no for."

Token claps Tweek on the shoulders one more time with an encouraging smile and then turns left to head up towards his house. Tweek watches him go half the block before heaving an aggravated sigh and trudging straight towards work. He's deep in thought when he shoves the door open with a cheerful jingle of the bell, only half listening to his father's lecture about punctuality. 

"JESUS CHRIST, Dad, IGOTIT!" Tweek snaps when his dad launches into the second verse of this lecture, When Are You Going To Take Your Responsibilities Seriously. He goes into the back room to get his apron with a satisfying slam of the door. 

Work is busy, as Friday nights often are, but for once Tweek doesn't mind it, even when his dad fucks off for an hour right in the middle of the rush. He needs the distraction, glad to have his hands busy, trying not to get himself too worked up over what Token told him. 

[home frm practice call me on yr way home] Craig reminds just before nine. Tweek texts back when his hands are free that he won't, and grins lopsidedly at the off-center snap of Stripe in Craig's sunglasses that Craig sends back. Mundane though it is, the exchange centers Tweek somewhat, glad and relieved that somebody cares where he is and what he's doing and if he gets home safe. If things stayed this way, if this was all there was, Tweek could live with it. 

Because here's the new worry that sprouts in Tweek's chest after his conversation with Token: is there anything Craig would tell Tweek no for? If Tweek avalanches his category 5 feelings on Craig, will he agree to do stuff he doesn't want to just to make Tweek happy? 

Tweak Bros. doesn't close until ten on Friday nights, but the rush thins out to almost nothing after Craig's texts, letting Tweek get a jumpstart on some of the cleanup. Once the doors are locked, he speeds through the rest of it despite his exhaustion, just wanting to get out of there, to hear Craig's voice, to crawl into bed. His dad is totaling receipts when Tweek shuffles past, yanking on his jacket. 

"Son, did you—" 

"Yeah, Dad," Tweek interrupts, not looking. If he makes eye contact his dad will find him something to do, or launch into a story about nothing, or whatever. Tweek just isn't having it; he keeps his head down low, eyes on the door in front of him. 

"What about—"

"NNGH, yeah, I did!" 

"How about—"

"IGOTIT! Stop pressuring me!" Tweek snaps just as he reaches the door. The sign is already flipped to 'closed,' and he yanks the door shut behind him with a sigh of relief. He tries not to think about how few hours there are between now and when he has to help open tomorrow morning, and focuses on fishing his phone out of his pocket. After a second of horror where he thinks he might have left it in his apron pocket and will have to go back, Tweek heaves a sigh of relief when it turns out he'd just slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. 

"Hi, honey," Craig answers the phone on the second ring. A fraction of Tweek's tension melts away at the familiar sound. "How was work?"

"Didn't, gah, kill anyone," Tweek answers. "How was practice?"

"Lame." There's the soft rustling noise of Craig shifting around, in his bed probably. Tweek wishes he were there, warm and safe, instead of starting his trudge home in the cold and the dark. "We finally got Clyde to memorize all his lines."

"Not cutting it close or anything," Tweek teases. He pauses at the corner, glances both ways, then chances a dash across the walkway. "Call it. Good musical, nngh, or shitty musical?"

"It's middle school," Craig says disdainfully, letting the _of course it'll be shitty_ hang in the air. Tweek could leave it alone, but the truth is that Craig likes watching musicals as well as being in them, and every spring he uses 'dates' as an excuse to go check out the musicals of the couple high schools within driving distance. Tweek doesn't mind them, but he's not the one with all the words to all 3 High School Musical movies memorized either. 

"No, but," Tweek presses, "Lake County does _Into the Woods_ shitty, or mmm, North Park does _The Sound of Music_ shitty?"

"Nothing's shittier than North Park," Craig pronounces flatly. "They're so white they don't even own color TVs."

"Craig!" Tweek protests, but he's cracking up, clapping a hand over his mouth when the loud sound carries in the quiet street. "Dude! Be real, I have to—erk—see it both nights." He's going with Craig's parents on Friday night and his own mother on Saturday. 

"It's still a big mess," Craig admits. "But the older kids say it's always like this a week out, and it almost always works out once everyone starts to panic." Tweek doesn't answer right away, the only sound the scuff of his sneakers on the pavement. Eventually Craig adds. "You'd come even if it was shitty. If I was in the worst musical on earth, you and my mom would be in the front row."

This comment, although true, makes Tweek think about his conversation with Token. 

"Craig? If I…" Tweek draws a deep breath, then uses it to force the words out. "If I asked you, nnn, to do something you didn't want to, would you do it?"

"Like what?" Craig asks. "Give me an example."

"I don't know! Just something." 

"Are we talking something I don't care about doing, or something I'd hate?"

"Idon'tknow!" Tweek repeats. He stops on the sidewalk and tilts his head back, counting what few stars he can see past the streetlights. "Either, grr. Or both?"

Craig is quiet, thinking. Tweek's star count is up to twenty-three before he finally speaks. "If you asked me to do something I didn't feel like doing, like hard or too much work, I'd do it. If it was something that I really hated or was scared of or would make me sick, you wouldn't ask me to do it unless there was a good reason, so I guess I still might."

Tweek bites his lip; that's what he'd been afraid of. Even if he tells Craig the kinds of things he'd been thinking about doing with him and Craig says yes, can he trust that Craig wants it too? The idea of Craig just humoring him is unpleasant, almost as bad as the idea of Craig telling him no in the first place. 

"Would you tell me? If you, oh god, didn't want to?" Tweek presses. "You wouldn't just take it? Right?"

"Honey," Craig says firmly, the _just stop_ tone of his voice making Tweek cringe. "You've gotta tell me what you're talking about if you want a real answer."

 _I can't_ , Tweek thinks, heaving a sigh. He drags his feet back to walking, his thighs half-numb from the wind just where his coat cuts off. "Token said you'd tell me yes to anything."

"That black _asshole_ ," Craig groans, venomous. "I told him not to—"

"No! Gah, he didn't tell me what you told him! Just…well, would you? Anything? Like…" Tweek casts around for something suitably distasteful, but something not at all related to sex. "Would you…nnn…take me to see a really sad movie?" Craig hates those, because he always cries. 

"Yes," Craig answers immediately. 

"Would you go on a whole vacation with my stupid parents?" Tweek keeps at it. He thinks about the worst vacation he ever went on, the one where they drove all the way to South Carolina because it was cheaper than flying. "To a family reunion? _Days_ stuck in the car?"

"Yup." Craig sounds smug, like he's winning a game. "That all you got?"

Tweek blurts, "Would you kiss me in front of the _whole_ school?" His face turns beet red as soon as he says it, cringing. 

"Sure," Craig answers, so easily Tweek knows he doesn't think kissing Tweek is anything special. It hurts a little but is kind of exciting too, that maybe he could get Craig to do that. Fake kissing is better than no kissing, maybe. "Want me to prove it Monday morning?"

"NO!" Tweek shrieks, flustered by the mix of embarrassment and appeal the idea of that holds. He rounds the corner to his block and finally his front door is in sight. Tweek tries to jog the last stretch of it, just wanting to be inside in the warm, but his freezing legs feel heavier than lead. Craig is saying something, but Tweek can't hear him over the wind and the way he's huffing for breath. He all but collapses against the door, whining in relief when he twists the knob and finds out his mother has left it unlocked for him. 

"Tweek?" Craig asks into the sudden silence after Tweek slams the door shut behind him, cutting off the wail of the wind. 

"I'MHOME!" Tweek announces both to Craig and to his mother; he hears a vague answer from the kitchen as he slumps with his back pressed against the door, all his energy drained. "I thought I was gonna _die_ , Jesus."

"Don't die, honey," Craig tells him, the calm flat of his voice reading as mild fondness to Tweek. His thawing cheeks and ears burn. "Lock the door."

"I _know_ that," Tweek says, even though they both know in an hour he'll text Craig to ask if he really did it or not. He fumbles at the deadbolt with his numbed fingers until it clunks into place. "Gonna go shower, I think I've got hypothermia! See you online?"

"Think I'm gonna crash." Craig yawns, and Tweek swallows the little stab of disappointment. "What time do you work until tomorrow?"

"Until Mandy shows up." Tweek pulls a face. He's trying to kick off his boots without bending down, but the laces are too knotted up for it to work. "If she shows up! Fucking teenagers!"

"Language, young man!" Mrs. Tweak calls from the kitchen. 

"I'll come see you after practice," Craig promises. "Maybe I can break you out early."

"Ugh, _promises_ promises," Tweek accuses. He gets one boot off with a _whump_ and despairs of the energy needed to extract himself from the second boot. "Night, Craig."

"Night, babe," Craig answers, sparking a warm spot in the center of Tweek's chest that he wishes would spread to his fingers and toes. 

Tweek keeps turning the whole thing over in his mind the entire time he's standing the shower, trying to rub warmth back into his frozen limbs. He doesn't get anywhere, his brain just running itself in circles between Token saying Craig would say yes to anything for him and Craig saying he'd kiss Tweek in front of the whole school. It's useless, he thinks in frustration as he towels water out of his hair with angry yanks; he's more confused than ever over whether it's better to keep on burying his feelings or give up and just confess the whole ugly mess to Craig directly. 

His phone, tossed carelessly on his bed when he stripped off his clothes, has one notification when he comes back from the bathroom. 

[u already locked the door i promise. c u tmrrw]

"Aaaagh," Tweek groans at his phone in the softest agony imaginable. 

This agony somehow translates into Tweek staying up half the night reading fanfiction instead of trying to sleep. Like the art of him and Craig that still circulate the school regularly, the stories the girls write about them range from harmless to hilariously bad. Craig says it's ridiculous to read fake stories about his own real self; Tweek finds reading them soothing sometimes, especially lately, like a daydream he doesn't have to do any of the work for himself. It's not a thing he does often, but just like other people get stuck in a YouTube hole, sometimes Tweek clicks through a couple dozen fics on the school message boards, looking for the ones that get him and Craig mostly right. If he reads enough of them, maybe one will have the words he needs, or enough of them that he can piece the rest of it together himself. 

He doesn't find them that night, though. Instead he crashes in the middle of a fic where Craig is a sailor and Tweek is the merman who saves his life. He tosses his phone aside in frustration, willing to forgive the shifting tenses but not the deeply flawed premise.

Because if anybody is going to be a siren-songed merman, it's definitely Craig, in Tweek's opinion. 

"Get with it, man," Tweek grumbles to himself, rolling over and squeezing his aching eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'not even color TV ' line is something my father, a sports writer for the newspaper, said to me about a small town he used to have to cover for high school wrestling and football. It's like the funniest thing he's ever said to me in my entire life.


	4. There Are Worse Things I Could Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this has been a WEEK. Three nights in a row I fell asleep trying to reread this chapter for the last time. 
> 
> The Musical schedule the last week before performances (tech week) is exactly the schedule that my high school always runs and our musicals are always great, but man, tech week sucks for everybody.

The weekend passes in a blur, busy and uneventful at the same time, Tweek's sense of unreality heightened by his self-inflicted sleep deficit. Craig slogs through Saturday musical practice and comes to hang out at Tweak Bros. while Tweek slogs through work. Craig does not manage to break Tweek out early because Mandy as expected does not show up on time, but he is a willing test subject for Tweek's attempts at coffee foam art. Both of them laugh until their stomachs hurt when Tweeks attempt at a snowman slumps into Craig's hot chocolate like a white, fluffy poop. 

"At least it tastes good," Craig says, slurping hot chocolate and ending up with whipped scream smudged on the tip of his nose. Tweek wants to lean across the counter to lick it off so badly that he grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles are white. 

Mrs. Tucker refuses their whined request for a Saturday night sleepover when she comes to pick them up, reminding Craig with exasperation that he's supposed to be resting up for a tough week. She must feel bad about it, though, because before she drops Tweek off at his house she takes them through the McDonald's drive-thru and gets them chocolate milkshakes, then parks the car long enough for them to drink them. Craig and Tweek huddle close together in the backseat, shivering from the cold of drinking ice cream in winter; Mrs. Tucker sensibly bought herself a hot chocolate and sips it while she scrolls through the news on her phone, pretending she can't hear the two of them bitching about musical directors and co-workers. 

Sunday is spent putting off homework and whining about it over FaceTime, then scrambling to finish it and whining about it some more. 

Monday is the start of musical Tech Week, meaning Craig has practice every day after school until late, and even some meetings during class periods. Tweek sees Craig hardly at all except for their morning bus ride and at lunch. Aside from finding the change in routine unsettling, Tweek misses the reassurance of Craig's physical presence, and then he gets mad at himself for being codependent. Craig isn't there to talk him down when he gets too frustrated or hug him until he stops shaking, and the whole thing spirals messily into chaos. Tweek grits his teeth and holds it inside himself as much as he can, wanting desperately to prove he can manage on his own, at least to himself. 

It doesn't help that Clyde and Jimmy are busy with musical, same as Craig, and the group chat is full of all the in-jokes and fun they're having without him. Even Token's down, home with a miserable head cold that Tweek has zero interest in contracting, so unless he wants to go back to being Stan's group's fifth wheel, which he never ever wants, Tweek is stuck being as the Lone Ranger for the week. 

Meanwhile Craig carries on their relationship as best he can via a steady stream of texts and snapchats.

[ripple chips or kettle? choose ur fighter]

Some of them are amusing, but Tweek feels like he's being checked on which he resents almost as much as he likes the attention. Sometimes he gets mad enough about it to purposely ignore the messages, and other times he's mad Craig doesn't text enough because he's busy having too much fun with his other friends to remember Tweek exists. 

[babe did u say something to clyde about his butt?? he keeps tryin 2 compar his butt w mine]

To make everything worse, Tweek is having the sort of intensely annoying week where an avalanche of irritations crop up one after another, all of them small enough that when you try to tell anyone else why you're so mad, you sound ridiculously petty. He sleeps through his alarm Monday morning, just enough to keep him feeling rushed and panicked all day. The weather turns to an icy drizzle which seeps into Tweek's boots somehow, leaving him with damp socks, and when he tries to tighten his laces, one breaks off in his hand. His favorite teacher is out sick, replaced by the bitchy substitute who spends the whole time on her phone and has a mustache. His mother packed him soup for lunch, but forgot to put his spoon back in his bag after washing his utensils over the weekend. In English they're reading a short story that Tweek actually kind of likes, so of course they have a surprise fire drill, which means Tweek ends up jammed in the same stairwell they always get jammed in because no one has the sense to go around, and then they stand in the icy rain without coats for fifteen minutes so that his sweater reeks of wet wool for the rest of the day. Craig's class is on the other side of the building, of fucking course, so the only thing Tweek can do is send a selfie of his damp misery. 

[aw relax babe i still think ewe r cute]

[SHUTHE DUCK UP] Tweek retorts, typing so angrily he nearly drops his phone to smash on the parking lot pavement. 

Tuesday's worse, because it's the same but Tweek is tireder and already at his limit. It's the kind of stuff he'd usually laugh about with Craig after enough stupid things happen in a row, trying to guess what bigger disaster will happen next. But Craig isn't around and the game is no fun to play on his own. Tweek tries to text his frustration, but written down his complaints look ridiculous, so he deletes them without sending. 

[ur quiet today u ok?]

Tweek types and erases at least four replies, before sending just [TECH WEEK SUCKS]

[srsly] Craig texts back immediately, as if he's been sitting on his phone waiting for Tweek's response all that time. The snarled knot in the middle of Tweek's chest eases just a little. [how is it only tues]

[aaaauuuugkdgkaghk] Tweek thumb-smashes back. Craig sends back a shot of himself flipping his camera the middle finger, apparently not having noticed his science teacher clearly visible over his right shoulder. Unsurprisingly, five minutes later Craig's next picture is of the view from the bench just outside Guidance. 

Tweek's mild amusement turns into more irritation when that stunt keeps Craig stuck in guidance past the start of their lunch period. Most of the musical kids are missing too, out in front of the cafeteria helping run either the ticket sales table or the bake sale. 

"Timmy?" Timmy asks when he pulls up into his spot at the end of their usual table. He looks around at the empty seats, then at Tweek, head tilted. 

"Just us today," Tweek says glumly. He bought lunch today, hoping to avoid yesterday's packing drama, but Taco Tuesday is boring without Clyde and Craig doing terrible Mexican accents and Jimmy's cheerful attempts to teach them real Spanish. Tweek is mostly just crushing his cheap nacho chips into smaller pieces with his thumb. 

"Timmy." Timmy sounds satisfied enough with that, so Tweek expects him to get on with his lunch like normal. But when he looks up, Timmy is watching him intently. 

"What?" Tweek asks, rubbing at his cheek self-consciously. He doesn't think he has food on himself or anything. "What?!"

"Timmy…" Timmy's voice is coaxing, intent, and a few iterations of Timmy's name, Tweek realizes that Timmy is probably trying to offer him advice, or at least sympathize with him.

"I'mfine!" Tweek snaps, hoping to cut Timmy off quickly. "I'm just, aargh, having a shit week. Don't worry—ECK—about it."

"Tim-Timmy." Timmy scowls at him, impatient. He palms the side of his head, like a hat, and Tweek recognizes their shorthand for Craig. 

"What about him?" Tweek says, and then more petulantly, "I can be places he isn't! I said I'm fine!" 

Timmy rolls his eyes hugely. He taps his head again, points at Tweek with his other hand, and makes an exaggerated kissy face.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Tweek groans, shoving his tray aside to throw his forehead down against the table. Timmy keeps on going, his tone brisk and supportive, undeterred by Tweek's whines of frustration. Tweek thinks blandly that Timmy should get himself one of those radio shows where people call in for relationship advice. 

"Timmy timmy," is Timmy's emphatic punctuating statement. Tweek glares at him, and Timmy stares back, expression stubborn. 

The slam of a lunch tray on the table ends their staring contest, making Tweek shriek. Tweek whips his head around to see Kyle throwing himself into a seat opposite them, expression like a thundercloud. 

"Can I sit here?" Kyle asks, even though he already has. "Without Stan, those two are fucking unbearable sometimes."

Tweek and Timmy peer around Kyle's shoulders to Kyle's usual table. Cartman and Kenny are laughing obnoxiously loud at whatever story Kenny is telling, undoubtedly pornographic since he's miming gigantic boobs in front of his chest, Cartman pounding his fist on the table so hard his milk is tipped over. 

"Timmy!" Timmy says, which Kyle takes as acceptance. All of them go back to picking at their lunches, the silence stretching out awkwardly. 

"So," Kyle says eventually, Tweek startled into dropping his plastic fork. "Are you and Craig doing—"

"AAAAGH!" Tweek exclaims, throwing down his plastic fork. "NO WE AREN'T! Why's everybody UP MY BUTT about Craig this week?! Fuck OFF, man! AGH!"

"…doing the cast party?" Kyle finishes flatly, unimpressed. "Stan asked me, and I want to know if I'll be the only non-cast kid there. Jesus, get a grip, dude."

"Timmy," Timmy says critically. Tweek snarls as his eye twitches involuntarily, cheeks hot. 

"I can hear you shrieking the whole way out in the hallway, babe," Craig's voice cuts through Tweek's tantrum, his hand a light touch between Tweek's shoulder blades. Tweek tilts his head back to see Craig looming over him, a mix of relief and embarrassment churning in his chest. Craig flashes him the barest flicker of a smile before turning a glare onto Kyle. "The fuck did you say to him, Broflovski?" 

"I just asked if he was going to the cast party," Kyle says. Craig drops onto the bench beside Tweek and reaches for one of Tweek's chips; it's too late in the period for it to be worth Craig getting his own lunch, so Tweek just shoves the whole tray towards him. "He freaked out all on his own, don't blame me."

"Uh-huh, I bet," Craig replies, skeptical. He shovels a forkful of Tweek's destroyed taco into his mouth."We might go if it doesn't seem lame. I'm not sure I want to put up with you fuckers any longer than I have to this weekend. Tweek might have work." He slides a protective arm around Tweek's waist, and Tweek all but melts in against Craig's side, exhausted from his outburst. So much for being independent. 

"That's really gay," Kyle announces, eyeing them. 

"Timmy!" Timmy says, like _that's what I've been saying_. Tweek tunes out the rest of the conversation, trying to take deep breaths and regain enough equilibrium that he has some chance of making it through his afternoon classes. 

If it just so happens that doing that with his cheek pressed against Craig's shoulder means he gets lungfuls that smell like Craig's laundry soap and deodorant, well, that's just how it is. 

Wednesday isn't any worse, but Tweek thinks that's mainly because he's pretty much hit rock bottom. Dreading school, he'd stayed up reading too late the night before, despite his tiredness. It isn't healthy, but it does put a blunt edge on Tweek's temper, making everything fuzzy, and he manages to struggle through his classes and work without humiliating himself more than usual. When he starts to get mad, he holds his breath and counts to ten. If that doesn't work he keeps going to twenty, and then thirty. During his work shift he makes it up to eighty-two at one point, but at the end of the night he can proudly text Craig that he didn't pour anyone's drink on them (on purpose). This time.

The musical preview rolls around on Thursday morning. South Park Middle always runs an AM assembly schedule for it, where everyone gets herded into the auditorium for a half-hour preview of the first couple songs in the hopes of spiking ticket sales. Then while everyone else goes back to class, the musical kids stay and do a free senior citizen's performance as their dress rehearsal. It should be an easy day, since most teachers won't do much with so many kids missing plus shortened periods. Tweek comes to school with his game face on, determined to get through the unpleasant part with the shoving and crowding, and then he can just ride out the rest of the day. 

"You can do it," Craig assures, hugging Tweek tightly just before dropping him off in homeroom. Musical kids are supposed to go right to the auditorium for set-up instead of homeroom this morning. "Wish me luck."

"That's BAD LUCK," Tweek snaps, face smooshed against Craig's chest. He can feel Craig's heartbeat against his cheek, faster than usual, and he knows Craig's nervous about being on stage in front of everyone no matter how much he says he doesn't care. Tweek slides arms around Craig's waist, under his coat, and squeezes tight. He doesn't think he's reassuring Craig in the same way that Craig does it to him, but he's trying. "Break a leg. You'll—mmn—be great."

"Thanks, honey." Craig gives a tiny, silent sigh that Tweek only feels because his hands are on Craig's back. He wants to pull Craig's T-shirt up and put his palms flat on Craig's warm skin, the idea striking Tweek so suddenly and powerfully that his breath hitches. Tweek holds perfectly still, afraid if he moves he'll do it, or something else just as terrible. 

"All right, boys!" their homeroom teacher calls from inside the room, busting them gently for PDA. "Craig, shouldn't you be in the auditorium?"

Craig's breath brushes warm against Tweek's temple, and Tweek clenches his jaw to keep from turning his head until their mouths meet. "I gotta go."

"Uh-huh," Tweek says, letting Craig push him back and then gently into homeroom. 

"Aww, you two gonna make it a whole day apart?" Kevin Stoley coos as Tweek shuffles past. A couple other kids laugh, and Tweek makes a fist so he won't flip them off while their homeroom teacher is still watching him. 

"Shove it," Tweek snaps, cheeks going pink. They snicker harder at him. At least they're going to first period before they get dismissed to the assembly, so he won't be stuck sitting next to these jerks. Their homeroom only needles him when Craig's absent, and Tweek imagines they'd probably have some shit to say about watching Craig on stage. 

The slippery, anxious feeling in Tweek's chest grows slowly the whole time he's sitting through the announcements and then shuffling to first period. There's nothing he can do about it except try to ignore it, taking slow breaths one after another and pinching rhythmically at the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger. He tries to make himself focus as the teacher explains that they'll be coming back to first period and should leave their things in the room, but Tweek is still startled out of a daze when everyone else stands up to shuffle out the door in a messy line. 

Tweek lingers in the back of his class as he trudges down the hall, trying to avoid the dreaded stairwell crush for as long as possible, even if it's only a few extra seconds. He clutches the railing in a death grip the entire way down, the jostling beside and behind him giving him visions of plummeting down the sharp-edged stairs to his doom. By the time he's at the bottom of the stairwell, he's breathing too fast and a little dizzy, and he stumbles half a step when there aren't any more stairs to go down. 

"Easy, dude," a cheerful voice says, hands clapping firmly down on his shoulders. Tweek twitches hard, but when he whips his head around it's just McCormick grinning easily at him. "Lose the other ducklings?"

"No!" Tweek snaps, jerking back, but when he looks around, his class and teacher have both been swallowed up by the crowd. "Ugh, _yes_." 

"Come on," Kenny says, grabbing for Tweek's wrist and pulling him along, ignoring Tweek's struggling. Kenny has a way of slipping through the crowd, so that they actually end up passing Tweek's class at one point. He doesn't stop until they're in the back of the auditorium, a pack of suspicious-eyed teachers watching the students shuffling into rows and barking about not skipping seats. 

"Timmy!" Timmy calls from the top of the far left aisle, waving. He's not allowed to roll himself down the steep slope of the auditorium aisle after the incident during the fall fundraiser assembly, so he has to wait there until a teacher has a minute. Everyone else is being herded down the center aisle, and when Tweek and Kenny step out of the group, one of the eighth grade teachers looms over them. 

"Where's your class?" he demands, crossing his arms. Tweek cowers behind Kenny, but Kenny shrugs and points to Timmy. 

"We're supposed to help Timmy, sir." 

The teacher looks unimpressed, but when he glances over his shoulder, Timmy waves again as if confirming their story, although probably he's just sick of waiting by himself over there. 

"Oh, fine," the teacher grumbles, turning back to the dozen other infractions he could be shouting at students about. "But there better not be a repeat of the fall fundraiser assembly incident!"

"Come on, let's get an aisle seat," Kenny says as they go over to Timmy. He grabs the handles of Timmy's wheelchair and starts down the slope, dragging his sneakers to keep Timmy from getting too much momentum. "I hate being squashed in the middle."

Tweek hates that too, but at least Kenny's motivation makes more sense now, so he goes along even though he remains faintly suspicious of Kenny's altruism. They stop about two-thirds of the way down the aisle, a few rows up from where one teacher is forcing students to fill in rows from the bottom of the auditorium up. She gives the three of them a warning glare, but Kenny points to Timmy with a shrug, and this teacher also lets them slide (seems like everybody remembers the fall fundraiser assembly incident). Making sure Timmy's parking brake is on, Kenny lets Tweek have the actual aisle seat and flops down beside him, scrunching down in the squeaky auditorium seat. 

"Thanks," Tweek says belatedly. Kenny shrugs again, phone already out and in his lap, brightness turned all the way down so he doesn't glow with it. Tweek glances nervously around to see if a teacher is close enough to yell at them, but realizes that Timmy at the end of the aisle blocks most of what they're doing from any teacher who happens to wander by, plus the amount of the aisle he's taking up makes most teachers reluctant to try and squeeze by. 

"Leo says we're gonna be here a while if they can't get the spotlight unstuck," Kenny reports, thumbs busy texting Butters a reply. Tweek pulls out his own phone to message Craig another good luck, then adds [lft aisle bside Timmy] as an afterthought. He doesn't get a reply, so Tweek assumes Craig doesn't have his phone on him. It doesn't stop him sending half a dozen more messages to pass the time. Craig won't care. 

Eventually the lights start going down, provoking a ripple of excitement from the middle school students and Kenny saying, "Ah, they must have got it. Damn, I was hoping we'd run late and skip first entirely."

The preview goes well enough, despite the director's questionable choice of starting with "Summer Lovin" as the first song and the whooping and shrieking that breaks out at the line "Did she put up a fight?" The squirming in Tweek's chest ebbs down to low tide gradually as it becomes apparent that the audience isn't going to laugh or boo the musical kids off the stage (last year it didn't go nearly so well). The eighth grader playing Danny is easy to hear and popular enough that most of the crowd is on his side, not that Tweek pays much attention so him when Craig is strolling around stage in that cursed leather jacket. 

"Tucker's hot in leather, man," Kenny leans in to whisper in Tweek's ear. Tweek swallows a curse and glares at him, but Kenny only grins wider. "Lucky you hopped on that on the ground floor."

"I didn't hop on _anything_ " Tweek hisses back. Craig catches Tweek's eye just then, giving him one of Clyde's cheesy "How YOU doin" finger guns that everybody else probably thinks is choreography, and Tweek sinks lower in his chair with a soft groan, cheeks burning. 

"Riiiight," Kenny says. Tweek can't even blame him. Honestly, finger guns?

By the third song, Tweek is reluctantly enjoying himself. It seems like it'll be a good musical this weekend, but more importantly, Craig seems relaxed, like he's having fun up there with Clyde and Jimmy. He's actually smiling, a little, and Tweek is glad they pressured Craig into auditioning, more than worth the one shitty tech week to see Craig happy. 

Tweek's good will lasts until the auditorium lights come up, and he hears the kid behind him drawl loudly, "Well, that was fucking gay."

He twists in his seat to see who it is. If it were any of the usual assholes from their class like Bill and Fosse, Tweek would probably let it go, but instead he finds a couple eighth graders who he doesn't exactly know, but recognizes from around. 

"Right?" The second one laughs as they stand up. "You couldn't pay me to do some queer shit like that in front of everybody. Losers." He mimes a little bit of the hand jive which, frankly, looks three times gayer than anything any boy on stage did, and Tweek's grip on his temper slips. 

"Shut up," he says, loud enough to cut through the buzz of the rising students around them. He scrambles to his feet, knee on his seat to glare at them. "I don't, nngh, see you up there."

"Because I'm not gay," the kid says, barely sparing Tweek a glance. Tweek grits his teeth and glances down for Kenny's reaction, but Kenny is absorbed in his phone, still facing front. "Also, exactly who the hell are you? Fuck off."

"Hey, I know who he is, he's that one kid's little boyfriend," the second guy says, snapping his fingers. "That tall asshole. Isn't your name literally Twink?"

"It's _Tweek_ ," Tweek snaps. "And shut up about Craig! Ack!"

"That explains that," the first kid snorts. "Congrats, your boyfriend's really fucking gay. Bet you're into all that leather, aren't all homos into that? Here's a thought, why don't you run your ass up there on that stage and suck his dick in front of every—"

The taunt about Craig's leather jacket touches a raw nerve, and Tweek is over the back of his chair before he knows what he's doing, giving a shriek of rage. He barrels into the eighth grader hard enough to drive him across the narrow aisle, his back smacking against the wall. The kid must outweigh him by thirty pounds, but Tweek doesn't care, adrenaline sharp and icy in his chest and fingertips as he twists them in the kid's shirt. 

"I said SHUTUP!" he snarls. 

"You're _dead_ , buttfucker," the kid promises, grabbing a fistful of Tweek's sweater near his throat, half-choking Tweek as he jerks it up. 

"BACK IT UP!" the roar of the assistant principal interrupts, hands clamping down on Tweek's shoulders and yanking him back hard enough to rip him out of the eighth grader's grip. Tweek stumbles back, knees unsteady, and bangs his hip hard on the outside armrest of the auditorium seats. "Just what is going on here?"

"Anders called Tweek a buttfucking fag," Kenny spoke up, drawing everyone's attention to him. He's standing next to Timmy's wheelchair, looking for all the world as if he's about to innocently roll Timmy back up the aisle. "He also suggested Tweek should perform a sex act on stage."

"That's not what happened! He started it!" The eighth grader shifts as if about to lunge forward, but a barked "Knock it off!" pins him where he is, looking away, jaw clenched. 

"Stay out of it, McCormick," the assistant principal orders, glaring over his shoulder. 

"Well, ok, sir," Kenny shrugs, relaxed. "I'm just saying, that sounds like some hate speech mixed with a little sexual harassment. Doesn't PC Superintendent take that kind of thing seriously? But you don't have to take my word for it, I'm sure in this day and age at least one student caught the whole thing on their phone."

Beside Kenny, Timmy holds up his phone, smile smug. "Timmy."

The assistant principal opens his mouth, then shuts it, eyes narrowing at the amount of nearby students gawking at situation. 

"Both of you, office, _now_ ," he orders, pointing up the aisle. Tweek almost falls on his face, starting to shake from fading adrenaline, but he forces one foot in front of the other, shuffling up the aisle as fast as he can go. He just wants to get out of sight, feeling like everyone's eyes are drilling into him. He glances over his shoulder once; Kenny is giving him a thumbs up and Timmy is flashing him a death metal devil horns hand sign. 

In the office, Tweek is deposited on the 'waiting for punishment' chairs while the 8th grader is dragged into the assistant principal's office first, the door slamming shut behind them. Dread starts crawling up Tweek's throat immediately; the waiting always worse than the punishment. Tweek curls and uncurls his fingers around the edges of the uncomfortable chair, trying to keep his breathing even. It feels like an hour, but it's not even five minutes before Tweek hears the 8th grader completely lose his shit, cursing out the principal loud enough for Tweek hear all of it through the door. A few seconds later, the door slams open, making Tweek jump six inches with a yelp. The principal leans out, looming over Tweek so that Tweek has to tilt his head back. 

"Go to guidance," he snaps, again pointing as if Tweek somehow doesn't know the way. "March!"

Lightheaded with relief that somehow Kenny's bluff didn't get called after all, Tweek stumbles to guidance in a fog. The secretary there is expecting him, and sends him back to his counselor. She's new and young and pretty, and named Miss Figg, somewhat hilariously. She gives Tweek a chirpy talk about impulse control, and then asks attentively if Tweek feels safe at school, if anyone is bullying him because of his sexual orientation, if he has a safe space he can go to or an adult he trusts. Tweek is an expert at navigating these kinds of conversations by now and does the whole thing on autopilot, mumbling 'yes ma'am' and 'I'm ok' with the perfect mix of sincerity and awkwardness. She's a nice lady, and Tweek thinks it's nice that she's honestly trying, but also thinks she'll be a much better counselor if she ever learns to see through bullshit acts like his. 

"All right, Tweek," she finally says, handing him a peppermint from the jar on her desk. "You come back and see me if anyone at all is bothering you. Go on to fourth period."

Tweek does not go to fourth period. Tweek goes to the boys' bathroom on the second floor by the back stairwell, the one barely anybody uses, where he slumps down to the floor with his back against the cold tile of the wall and has a complete meltdown. It's all too much, this week and feeling left out and the hotness of Craig on stage and thinking he was going to get suspended for fighting. Frustrated with the whole world but most of all with himself, Tweek scrubs at the hot, angry tears that spill over his cheeks, but can't make them stop. 

He usually texts Craig right away when this happens, but this time he stubbornly refuses, knowing Craig's busy getting ready for the senior citizen performance. This is Craig's week and Tweek doesn't want to make it about him, so he wraps his arms around his knees and tries to swallow his ugly crying noises, determined to wait it out on his own. 

After maybe fifteen minutes, Craig shows up anyway, the creak of the door making Tweek jerk his head up before Craig calls a soft, "Tweek?"

"Uuuugh," Tweek groans, hunching into an even more miserable ball. He can't catch his breath fully, nose congested and on the verge of hyperventilating. Craig kneels down in front of him, grunting as the hardness of the tile floor digs into his knees. 

Craig touches the back of Tweek's hand lightly. "Token said you never showed to third period. He picked your bag up from first."

"Go away, Jesus, you're busy, I'm—" Tweek's voice catches, and he swallows hard. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against his knees. "Fine, I'm fine, oh god."

"I've got a minute, we're eating lunch early," Craig explains. "Are you having a panic attack?" His fingers twine around Tweek's wrist, feeling for his racing pulse. Tweek wheezes, all the answer Craig needs. "Ok, deep breaths, slow. I'll count."

Craig counts a steady one two three four in, one two three four out, well-practiced at the rhythm of it after all this time. Tweek breathes wetly, open-mouthed, until he can draw oxygen all the way into his lungs again. When Tweek's breathing is slower, Craig shifts over to sit next to him against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Tweek still refuses to look at him, more ashamed than ever. 

"Kenny said you flipped your shit on some eighth grader." Craig's hand presses against Tweek's back, warm and big, rubbing in soothing circles. "Did he hurt you at all?" Tweek shakes his head. "Are you in trouble?"

"No." Tweek wheezes out a laugh. "Kenny said—GAH—'hate speech' and, nn, 'PC Superintendent' in the same sentence. I got the safe spaces talk again."

Craig snorts. Tweek cautiously lifts his head to peek, even though his eyes are watery and a little blurry from pressing too hard against his knees. Craig's taken his stage makeup off, but his hair is still slicked back in the duck's ass most of the boys are sporting for the show. It's ridiculous and kinda cute at the same time, and Tweek hates himself just a little more for thinking that at all. 

"You made me swear not to start any fights so I don't get kicked out of musical," Craig reminds, faintly reproving. Tweek's gaze drops guiltily to the floor. "What'd he say to you?"

"That you're gay, and I should, oh shit, blow you on stage." Tweek doesn't elaborate, even though Craig raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying that that's the whole truth. 

"You hated the idea of doing that so much you had to kick his ass?" Craig asks, making Tweek's head snap up. 

"Not, OHGOD, in front of everyone!" Tweek exclaims, face heating up at even the idea. Craig's frown changes to surprise, and Tweek barrels on before Craig can yell at him for even thinking about weird stuff like that. "That's not why anyway…he just, nngh, made me so mad, sitting there calling you a fag. Those assholes wouldn't have the guts to go on stage for two minutes! Shit, UUGH, I just lost it, because you were GREAT. And those guys just shit on you like AAAARG—"

"You thought it was good?" Craig interrupts. His expression softens, something as close to shy as Craig ever gets. 

"Yeah, man." Tweek offers Craig a watery smile, glad to shift the focus to him. Craig grabs for Tweek's hand, and Tweek squeezes it tight. "Really good. Were you nervous?"

"Yeah." Craig's laugh is sharp, awkward. "I thought I was gonna puke just before. Clyde cried. But once we started, it was ok."

Tweek leans into Craig just a little more, Craig's warmth a welcome difference from the chilled wall and floor. "Are you scared about this afternoon?"

"Not as much. It can't be scarier than doing it in front of the whole school, right?" Craig nudges at Tweek's shoulder with his own. "Little old ladies probably won't call us fags." 

An emotion swells in Tweek's chest, warm and so big it feels like his chest can't hold it. It's kind of like affection and kind of like attraction, but it's mostly made of how Tweek knows that Craig loves to sing but has been reluctant to do it in front of people ever since his voice started changing. Musical has been a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot of attention, none of which are things Craig usually tolerates well. After all the times Craig urged Tweek to try things or not to give up, Tweek's so happy that Craig tried something hard for himself for a change and saw it through to the end. 

"Craig?" Tweek says before he can lose his nerve. "I'mreallyproudofyou."

There's a second of silence that threatens to send Tweek right back into panic before Craig answers quietly, "Thanks, honey. But don't punch anybody else just for saying I'm gay, ok? Between the boyfriend and the musical, it's stupid to get suspended over shit that's obviously true."

"Deal," Tweek agrees. The class change bell rings before either of them can say anything else, and Craig heaves a sigh. 

"I've gotta go." Craig gets his feet under him and pushes to his feet. He tugs on Tweek with their still-connected hands. "Come on. You've just got lunch now anyway."

" _Eeerg._ " Tweek, shifting forward to start standing up, slumps back down against the wall like dead weight. His stomach rolls at the thought of so many people, the noise, everyone staring at him, and then having to sit at their mostly empty lunch table again. "NOWAY. I can't! I'll, Jesus, I'll just stay here, it's f—"

"You're not staying in the bathroom all day," Craig cuts him off, wrinkling his nose. He bends over to grab Tweek's other hand, then pulls Tweek to his feet, ignoring his whines. "It's gross. And you'll get all jittery if you don't eat."

"Whatever," Tweek says miserably. "Who _cares?_ " Worst case scenario, Tweek can agree to go to lunch and then just go hide somewhere else, but he hates lying to Craig like that. 

"I do, clearly…" Craig trails off, frown returning. Tweek hunches his shoulders, thinking Craig is frustrated at him, then startles when Craig lifts a hand and brushes the front of Tweek's throat with two fingers. "You have a mark."

"Do I? Shit," Tweek groans. He bats Craig's hand down, trying to suppress a shiver at the weirdly intimate touch. "They're gonna think we…aaaaaagh." Tweek dares a glance at Craig's face, flinching at how his expression is cold steel suddenly. 

"Did that guy do that? Did he fucking _choke_ you?" Craig's voice is deadly flat, the way it only ever does when he's really mad. "Tell me, and _don't_ say it's nothing."

"GAH!" Tweek chokes on his words, because he'd been about to say just that. "He grabbed my sweater, you know, up…" Tweek touches his collar, feeling how it's been stretched out some. "Craig, don't. Please?"

"Don't WHAT?" Craig demands, eyes hard. Tweek knows it's not him Craig is mad at, but it makes him uncomfortable anyway. Craig reaches for the mark on his throat again, but Tweek catches at his hand, squeezing it hard. 

"Don't anything. I know you want to, but, nngh, it won't help anything. It's already over, and I, Christ, I started it. I'MSORRY." Tweek wants to look away, ashamed of himself, but he forces himself to look Craig in the eye, to make sure Craig is listening. 

Craig struggles with it, his jaw clenched tight. Tweek holds his breath until Craig makes a frustrated noise and deflates a little, then holds out his arms. Tweek isn't sure if the hug is for him or for Craig, but he returns it gladly, eyes fluttering shut when Craig smoothes a hand over the mess of his hair where Tweek's been pulling at it in the back. 

"Don't be sorry," Craig mutters. "Fuck that kid, I'm glad you went for it. You would have kicked his ass. Hey, you wanna come with me?"

"Eh?" Tweek asks, puzzled. 

"Come help Red do makeup or something," Craig suggests. "No one'll care."

"I'm not on the LIST," Tweek protests. The music teacher had sent out a list of students involved in the show so that the other teachers can check their attendance against it to make sure anybody missing isn't just cutting class. "I'll get caught!"

"There's like a hundred kids on that list, nobody reads the whole thing," Craig says, ruffling Tweek's hair one last time before pushing him back. "Mr. Richardson will vouch for you if it anybody gives you shit, he has no idea half the kids' names doing makeup or crew."

Craig slides his hand into Tweek's and starts pulling him along without waiting for an answer. Tweek lets himself be dragged out of the bathroom, chewing on his lower lip but not arguing. He can't stomach the thought of the cafeteria right now and doesn't want to go class either, his head fuzzy and limbs cold from the aftereffects of the panic attack. Maybe he'll feel like a fifth wheel if he just hangs around backstage with all the other musical kids who have been working together for weeks, but at least Craig will be close enough for him to see or hear. 

"Ok," Tweek says belatedly. It's soft, but the hallway is quiet, and Craig looks over his shoulder to smile at him. 

"I feel like I barely saw you at all this week," Craig says, turning to face front again. "I can't wait for next week, when things will be back to normal."

Tweek almost tells him right then and there, the big gay feelings in his chest swelling until it's a wonder he isn't floating down the hallway like an inflatable parade float, only tethered to the ground by Craig's hand. _I could just do it_ , he thinks, just tell him _you've always been my best friend but now I feel different_ or _I think about kissing you all the time_ and _put your hand up if you have a fake boyfriend, not so fast, Craig_ or _this is all your fault for being so cute and nice to me_. In the time it takes them to travel from the second floor bathroom back down to the auditorium, Tweek thinks of at least twenty-five things he could say to Craig to try and get his point across. 

And then he swallows all of them. Because this is Craig's week, and Tweek has already been a gigantic nuisance. He's lasted this long, he can last at least a little longer. 

Craig pauses at the door of the music room they're using as a makeup and hair area, the noise of two dozen middle school students loud even through the door. He glances down at Tweek, uncertain.

"Is this too much?" he asks. "I can take you somewhere quiet, like the nurse or back to guidance."

"No, I'm ok," Tweek says. He feels calm, like the walk helped clear his head, his meltdown earlier given him some kind of catharsis. It won't last, but it's better than nothing. "It's, mm, fine for now."

Craig squeezes Tweek's hand and pushes open the door, pushing Tweek in ahead of him. 

"There you are!" Clyde calls, waving his arms like he's picking them up at the airport. Bebe, who is trying to help put on his stage makeup, groans at him for moving. Her own makeup and hair are already done, the teased 50's-style curls held back by a scarf tied in a smart bow. The eighth grade girls have all the female leads, but Tweek thinks Bebe would have been a way better Frenchy than the girl they have doing it. 

Honestly, Butters would probably make a better Frenchy than the girl they have doing it. 

"You look like, urg, like right off the poster!" Tweek exclaims. Bebe preens from the praise, sitting up straighter. 

"Suits her to a T, doesn't it?" Butters agrees from the chair next to Clyde's. "Some of these guys look downright neato all done up 50's style. I just look plain silly."

"It's not that bad, dude," Clyde assures cheerfully, even though it kind of is. They tried to turn Butters' usual undercut into some kind of pompadour, but no amount of product seems able to tame Butters' hair into the smooth waves like the picture of James Dean taped to the mirror. 

"Thanks for sayin' so," Butters says, amiable. "Guess we can't all be Craig, here, with his cute little duck's ass."

"Whatever," Craig mutters, looking away when Tweek grins up at him. 

"I know, his ass IS great," Clyde exclaims. "But mine's not bad, right? Bebe? In your top five, for sure."

"A duck's ass is the name of Craig's hairstyle, you cretin," Bebe cuts Clyde off in exasperation. Clyde blushes, visible underneath even the thick stage makeup, while everyone else laughs at his expense. 

"Keep an eye on this guy while I go change," Craig asks them, pushing Tweek down into the chair next to Clyde. "In case he goes on a Hulk rampage again."

"Yeah!" Butters interjects, excited. "Ken said you really gave it to that eighth grader, like WHAMMO!"

"Agh! That's notwhathappened!" Tweek protests, embarrassed. Craig squeezes his shoulders and promises he'll be right back. He gives Butters a warning glare before he goes, glancing back at Tweek one more time before he goes out the door. 

"Pretty nice boyfriend you have there," Bebe comments as soon as Craig is out of earshot. Her expression is casual but the look she gives Tweek is narrow. "You ever gonna tell him you want to climb him like a tree?"

"Bebe! No!" Tweek screeches, squirming. "It's too much pressure!"

"I knew it!" Butters exclaims, eyes lit up. "I told Ken you two weren't faking it! That dumbass don't know nothing. Who the hell would fake being gay for three whole years?"

Bebe and Clyde both point at Tweek; Tweek groans and slumps miserably in his chair. "You guys _suck_. Jesus, ugh."

Tweek swears them to secrecy, even Butters, and true to their word none of them say anything when Craig returns aside from a lot of pointed looks and eye rollin behind Craig's back. Red teaches Tweek how to fix Craig's hair since he mussed it up getting changed, and he sticks around after the others are gone to help her straighten up the makeup and hair area. It's nice to be busy, to have something to keep his mind occupied. 

After that Tweek sneaks into the backstage and hangs out quietly, listening to most of the senior citizen performance and wondering what it looks like from the audience, hanging around with whichever kids are off-stage at any particular moment. Tweek's pretty sure Craig ordered some of the other kids to keeping checking on him, but it doesn't feel too embarrassing at the moment. When the finale is over, Craig comes offstage in a rush of sweaty euphoria to sweep Tweek into a tight hug against his stupid, perfect leather jacket. Tweek closes his eyes, hooking his fingers in Craig's belt loops and listening to Craig's heart hammering, and thinks it would be ok by him even if things just stayed like this always.


	5. You're the One That I want

Reality comes trickling back in for Tweek as the school day ends. As Craig, Clyde, Butters, and Jimmy get changed and make sure their costumes and odds and ends are ready for opening night tomorrow, Tweek can't help his thoughts turning back inwards, thinking about that morning again, dwelling on his lack of impulse control, wondering if either the principal or counselor called his parents about it. They probably had to, right? Tweek wonders as he squeaks the toe of his sneaker along the floor, slumping in his chair. He isn't looking forward to the lecture from his dad that a phone call like that will produce. 

"What's that face for?" Craig asks, finally noticing Tweek's expression. 

"Mandated reporting," Tweek sighs heavily. He scowls when Craig snorts at him. 

"Weirdo," Craig says with affection. "Ready to go? Token's got your bag out by the buses."

Tweek trudges after the others, only Craig's grip on his hand keeping him from falling entirely behind. He's dreading the bus, the noise and crowd of it, and as they push out of the doors, the faint scent of diesel makes Tweek's empty stomach roll. 

"Come on, babe," Craig tries to hustle him when Tweek really starts to drag his feet. "We're gonna miss the…" He trails off when he takes a good look at Tweek's reluctant, nauseated expression. "Wanna walk home?"

Walking will take three times longer than the bus in the cold, damp weather, and Tweek knows Craig must feel even more exhausted than he does. Craig hates walking home. He opens his mouth to say no, he can handle it for the short ride, but what comes out instead is a very small, "Yes." 

"Sure. Let's just grab your stuff from Token," Craig agrees. Chest twisting in a mix of gratefulness and self-irritation, Tweek trails meekly behind Craig as they find Token in the sea of students and retrieve Tweek's backpack. Token slaps Tweek on the back and says he hopes he feels better, then boards the bus with the bus driver screeching at him. Clyde is already on board, nose smooshed up against the window as he waves frantically at Craig and Tweek. 

"Don't encourage him," Craig tells Tweek, but Tweek gives Clyde a tiny wave back, biting his lip to keep from smiling. Satisfied, Clyde sits back as the bus starts pulling away. As the noise of bus engines and middle schoolers fades away, Craig heaves a small sigh into the quiet. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Tweek agrees, shouldering his backpack. His chest has loosened a little and he offers Craig a shaky smile as he sticks out his hand. "Thanks. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that today," Craig orders. He twines their fingers together, squeezing hard. "You don't have to apologize to me for having a shit day."

"I just…KEH!" Tweek grinds his teeth in frustration. "Wanted to be ok this week! You should, shit, be able to worry about just yourself sometimes! Not me always, not…" Tweek glares at his boots, shoulders slumped. "This is supposed to be YOUR week! Fuck."

"That's sweet," Craig says, matter of fact. "And I'm happy you want to do things for me too. But it's not a seesaw where we have to be even. I worry about you a lot less when you tell me what you need, and I don't care what week it is. I'd rather you just be honest about it."

"Uh-huh," Tweek says dully, the word 'honest' lodging in his chest like a barbed arrow. He tries to shake it off like he did that morning, but it doesn't work this time. His head is a messy loop of how nice it feels when Craig says stuff like that vs how he doesn't deserve so much of Craig's time or patience. 

Both of them are quiet as they walk around the middle school to get to the front intersection and wait for the light to cross. The only sound is the scuff of their shoes against the sidewalk and the wind. Tweek focuses on keeping his breath in time with Craig's even footfalls, hoping the walk will soothe his frazzled nerves at least somewhat. 

The middle school isn't quite out of sight yet when Craig speaks up. 

"You've been a mess all week," he says. When Tweek side-eyes him, Craig squeezes his hand. "I know it's not just musical. Wanna talk about something?"

"No," Tweek says quickly. The ache in his chest tries to crawl up his throat, but he swallows it back down. "Nonono. I'm fine, I'm—nngh—it's nothing, don't worry about—"

Craig heaves a sigh, cutting off Tweek's ramble, and stops walking. He tugs Tweek to a stop too, turning him by their joined hands until Tweek is staring at Craig's coat zipper. 

"We just talked about exactly this. Let's try again," Craig says briskly. Tweek whines low in his throat, but if Craig hears it, he ignores it. "You've been a mess all week. Tell me what's bugging you. Please, honey?"

Tweek's eyes rise to Craig's face even though he doesn't want them too, because he already knows what he'll see. Craig's face is calm and patient, his cheeks stung pink by the wind, his eyes mildly concerned but mostly just blue, so blue. Just how much he likes Craig is like a holding a cat that's trying to claw its way free from inside of his chest, trying to climb out his throat. He shakes his head; he can't, he just can't. 

"Is it something that bad?" Craig asks, starting to look genuinely concerned. 

"Yes," Tweek mutters, strangled. He wills Craig just to drop it so he doesn't start a fight, anxious about reaching the end of Craig's patience. 

"So bad you can't even tell me?" Instead of angry, tiredness is seeping into Craig's expression, and hurt, and that's worse. It's _unfair_. Tweek wants to wipe that look off Craig's face, but he wants to keep things stable too, his grip on what's the right thing to do unravelling faster by the second. Craig does the worst possible thing, which is to look Tweek in the eye and ask, "Why not?"

Tweek doesn't have an answer, doesn't want to lie but can't tell the truth, so he ends up just staring miserably up at Craig. It's futile, he already knows, because Craig has a stubborn streak wider than a snowplow and has never lost a staring contest so far as Tweek knows. 

"Tell me why," Craig says. 

"Because I like you!" Tweek shouts, at the end of his rope. He can't hold it in one more second, but as soon as he blurts it out, he feels wretched. He's ruining _everything_. 

"I like you too," Craig replies. He looks relieved, which is how Tweek knows he doesn't get it. 

"NO! NNGH!" Tweek yanks his hand out of Craig's and clenches both hands into fists. "I like like you! Like, errg, your hands and your hair and your STUPIDFACE! Fuck, it's driving me crazy!" 

"Yeah?" Craig raises an eyebrow. He's so calm it sends Tweek, already anxious from blurting out his confession, spiraling out of control. "My stupid face, huh?"

"Oh my god, I'm not fucking around!" Tweek shrieks, panic gripping his lungs and squeezing them half-shut. "I'm super fucking gay for you! I'm the worst! And you don't even _care_!"

"Of course I care." Craig catches Tweek's wrist as his hand comes up to yank his hair. He strokes his thumb over the inside of Tweek's wrist, and Tweek's throat closes up. "But we've kind of been boyfriends for three years? I should fucking hope we both—"

"No, Jesus, but for _real_ ," Tweek insists, frustrated he can't get his point across. "I like you FOR REAL! Like GAYFUCKINGBOYFRIEND REAL!"

"Yeah, babe," Craig repeats, slower, more deliberately; he seems to have realized something more unusual than a panic attack is happening. "I for gay fucking boyfriend real like you too."

"What." Tweek can't even process it, his brain rainbow beachballing like Craig's laptop when they upgraded it too much for the processor. Craig is still watching him closely but impassively, as if they're talking about math homework instead of upending Tweek's whole worldview. "NNGH, why are you always SO CALM it's drivingmeCRAZY!"

"Because I've felt like that for ages." Craig shrugs with one shoulder. "I got used to it. You didn't just figure that out, did you?" Craig examines Tweek's frozen expression. "Come on, seriously?"

"You…" Tweek blinks. A wave of horror sweeps Tweek from head to toe. "Oh GOD. Shit, since WHEN?"

"Since we got back together." Craig's voice is quieter. "During superheroes? Or since that time you dressed up like a devil with the wings and the tail. I definitely had some gay fucking boyfriend feelings about that."

"THAT'S LIKE THE ENTIRE TIME!" Tweek wails; he yanks his wrist out of Craig's hand to curl his arms around his stomach. He feels like he might be sick, right there on Craig's sneakers and _nobody should expect anything better from him_. "You son of a bitch! AAGH! Why didn't you TELL me?!" 

"Well…" Craig looks uncomfortable. "I wasn't trying to hide it. But you kept ignoring it every time I pushed it, so I figured you weren't ready. I was afraid of freaking you out."

"FREAKING ME OUT?!" Tweek can't seem to lower his volume, can't think straight, can't draw a deep breath. "CRAIG, what the FUCK?"

"I thought you knew!" Craig insists. His cheeks are turning pink, his gaze dropping. "Even back then, you're the one who came to me to ask to go back out. You're the one who dragged me to Mackey's shitty couple's therapy! I always thought you felt the same as me. You didn't?"

"NO! I DON'T KNOW!" Tweek can feel tears of frustration building behind his eyes and he grinds his teeth tightly, trying to hold them back. Crying in public is the _worst_ , no, crying in front of Craig is the _double fucking worst_. His eyes dart side to side, looking for the easiest way to get the hell out of here. 

"Tweek, honey, calm down," Craig is reaching for him, and Tweek knows he won't be able to get away, won't even probably want to, if Craig gets a good grip. He jerks back, out of reach.

"Don't! I CAN'T! It's too much!" With one last anguished screech, Tweek whirls on his heel and runs as fast as he can, away from Craig, away from the entire situation. He runs until he's out of breath and wheezing, the cold air burning his lungs, the only sound his mis-tied boots hitting the pavement, and then the dirt. 

The adrenaline takes him the entire way out to Stark's Pond and leaves him shaking with cold and anxiety. His lungs are too tight to draw a full breath, adding to the panic, and he ends up dropping right there onto the frozen dirt of the path, bruising his knees. 

One of his boots is untied, it's a wonder he didn't lose it on the way, and somehow that thought brings a problem small enough that he can focus on it. His fingers are half-numb and shaking, making it take several tries to get one lace back through a single hole, then the other side, but it's fine that the task stretches out for minutes on end, giving Tweek enough time for some reality to set back in. By the time he's finishing tying his boot, he hears footsteps pounding up the path and jerks his head up, expecting a child abductor or a yeti or manbearpig to be barreling down on him. 

It's worse; it's Craig. 

"Uuuurgh," Tweet moans, dropping his eyes back to his boot laces. He wants to run again, but his body feels like it's made of lead, heavier, like the shit that Thor's hammer is made of. He just can't. Craig drops beside him on the path, his hat askew, his cheeks bright pink, panting huge white clouds into the cold air. Tweek tries to keep from looking at him but can't. 

"You're so goddamn fast when you're freaking out," Craig says, exasperation mixed with admiration. His hat is askew, his eyes wide with worry and so, so blue. "I was scared I might have lost you for a few minutes there."

"Ehhhh," Tweek offers. Craig touches his shoulders with tentative hands, then pulls on him more firmly when Tweek doesn't jerk away again. Tweek doesn't protest as Craig pulls him into his lap, Craig's thighs shielding Tweek's butt from the frozen ground, and wraps arms around him. Tweek's forehead falls naturally against Craig's neck and his fingers curl tight around a fistful of Craig's coat, just holding on. His brain feels weirdly empty, like he's a snow globe that's been shaken up violently but then left to settle. 

"You're freezing, you moron," Craig says, voice soft, soothing. "Are you hurt? You're crying."

"Am I?" Tweek asks dully. He doesn't feel it until Craig smudges one of the tear tracks away with his thumb; Tweek's cheek had been so cold he hadn't even felt the liquid running down it. 

Silence stretches out between them, seeming muffled in the cold winter air. Tweek listens to Craig's breathing slowly returning to normal, the soft _schuff_ of Craig rubbing Tweek's shoulder. Tweek's panic is still there, a low thrum in his belly, but it's hard to sustain it with the cold settling into his bones, sapping what's left of his energy. 

"I didn't want to tell you," Tweek says when he's tired of waiting for Craig to say something first. His throat is raspy from the cold air, and swallowing burns. "Thought I'd, ugh, wreck everything."

"You didn't wreck anything. You really didn't know I was serious?" Craig asks, voice quiet. Tweek shakes his head, cheek rubbing against Craig's palm. "Shit. I'm so sorry, babe. You know my acting's the worst. You can't really have thought…all of it? Like the dates and holding hands and hugging?"

"We always did that stuff," Tweek protests. His throat is thick and he struggles to push the words out. "For show. Nothing's, ohgod, changed since fourthgrade, nothing but ME. ARGH. I thought…" Tweek draws a ragged breath, the freezing air burning his lungs. 

"Tell me," Craig encourages. The hand that's been resting on Tweek's cheek slides back to cup the back of Tweek's neck. 

"I thought you were only doing it for me." It hurts to say it out loud, the words turning into white smoke. Tweek closes his eyes so he can't see them leaving his mouth. "I'm such a _mess_ , grr, and you take care of me and you're sofuckingpatient with me. You've got Clyde and Token and, Jesus Christ, Jimmy but you know you're my only best friend, you're the _onlyone_. So I couldn't tell you! That it—GAH—it's _notenough_."

"It's not enough?" Craig repeats. He sounds breathless, and Tweek is afraid to open his eyes and see how angry Craig is with him. "What isn't? Holding hands? Hanging out?"

"Don't," Tweek says weakly. It sounds so awful when Craig says it, like he's already doing so much and Tweek is a terrible, greedy person. He wishes he hadn't said anything, hadn't melted down, hadn't come to school today, hadn't gotten out of bed this morning… 

"Tweek, look at me," Craig orders, low and urgent. Tweek cracks open one eye. Craig's expression is intense, mouth a tight line and eyes dark, but not angry like he expected. Tweek can't read what it is he sees in Craig's face, and it unnerves him because he's thought all this time that he knows every face Craig has. "Please tell me, honey. What would be enough?"

"I…you," Tweek tries to stumble through what he really does want, but he's been shoving his feelings down without examining them, so he barely knows himself. "Being real, eeergh, when you hug me really tight, or kissing, or, I want… _fuck_ , I don't know, it's YOU. I want y—"

Craig's mouth presses hard against Tweek's, cutting off his awful rambling. Tweek is too stunned to kiss back and doesn't know how anyway. It hurts a little, his chapped lips caught between their teeth, but the balloon of panic that's been inflated in Tweek's chest ever since tech week started finally pops, like yawning to explode his eardrums when they drive down from the mountains into Denver. It hurts, but it'll feel better afterwards. 

When the kiss breaks, Craig doesn't go far, his forehead pressed against Tweek's, his hand still wrapped around the back of Tweek's neck to keep him from trying to escape. 

"Fucking finally," Craig mutters. 

"Craig?" Tweek asks, shaky, stunned. 

"I want more too," Craig tells him, breathless. Tweek's chest squeezes so tight. "That's what I've been trying to show you. Sometimes I'd think you did too, but then when I'd try anything new, you'd get weird. So I figured you weren't ready. Lately, you've been so jumpy…I was getting scared you'd _never_ be ready."

"I'm having a heart attack," Tweek groans. Craig kisses him again, more gently, slower, and yeah, it's definitely a heart attack. Tweek gets absorbed in the feel of Craig's mouth against his own, easing his panic, but the excitement of finally doing something he's been daydreaming about for weeks keeps his heart racing. 

"Can we finish talking about this at my house?" Craig asks eventually. Tweek blinks at him with dazed eyes. "I can't feel like two-thirds of my body."

"Y-yeah," Tweek agrees. Reluctantly he peels himself off of Craig and stands up, knees wobbling for a second from fatigue before he balances out. He reaches for Craig's hands to help pull him to his feet, which is sort of patently ridiculous since Craig outweighs him, but Craig allows it with only a faint smile. The butt and thighs of Craig's jeans are soaked from the wet ground, but he shushes Tweek's apologies. 

They start back in silence, both of them shivering miserably. Tweek's still thinking about everything Craig said, slowly, because he keeps thinking about Craig saying he's been waiting for ages, that he wants Tweek too, and then Tweek's thoughts derail into a tea-kettle shriek for a few seconds before it all starts over. Eventually Tweek tugs Craig's hand to get his attention. 

"You were afraid I might never be ready?" Tweek asks. Craig nods. "What were you gonna do if I never was?"

Craig turns his gaze forward again, chewing on his lower lip. "Just…keep going like this, I guess. Like I've been doing."

"Jesus Christ." Tweek thinks about how overwhelming his feelings have been, and that's only been for weeks, maybe a month. Craig's been putting up with it for ages longer, for him, and the idea of that is still sinking in, making Tweek's chest ache pleasantly. "Really?"

"Yeah, dude." Craig's gaze is steady despite his chattering teeth. "I just want to be with you."

"That's really gay," Tweek says, voice as wobbly as the smile he can't stop spreading across his face. 

"Finally caught on, I see," Craig snorts. There's a moment of silence before he adds, "I could have killed Mom when she gave you that sex talk. You looked so miserable, that's when I was sure you didn't…you know. At all."

"That's because it was your MOM, dude!" Tweek protests, twitching in embarrassment at even the memory of it. "AGH! Nobody wants to talk to their boyfriend's mom about doing it! Jesus Christ! And I was miserable BECAUSE I was into it, and she fuckingknewit!" Craig starts laughing, quietly, then harder when Tweek punches him hard in the shoulder with his free hand. "SHUTUP! What about you, huh?! You NEVER talk about sex!"

"I do so," Craig argues. 

"Nuh-uh! Clyde and Jimmy are always, ugh, shouting weird shit about bases and tits and sticking their dicks in things." Tweek is so involved in his argument that he misses the turn at Craig's corner, and Craig has to yank him back onto the sidewalk. "ERK! You never say anything, or you tell them to fuck off or shut up."

"I do _so_ ," Craig insists. "I just…not when you're right there. I talk about it with them sometimes, but when you're around, we'd all know I'm talking about you and that's fucking weird. And you tell them all the time they're gross, so same goes for you, dude."

"They ARE gross!" Tweek grumbles, kicking at a rock on the sidewalk and watching it skitter away. "Even if I liked girls, half the stuff they say is.." Tweek scrunches his face up remembering a story about Clyde and the vacuum. "It's TOOMUCH, errrrgh." He sneaks a look at Craig's face. "When I'm not there, are you like that too? You're not."

"A little, I guess." Craig doesn't meet Tweek's eyes as he drops his hand to start hunting around for his house key in his pockets. "I think about weird stuff too. Not about tits and whatever. Sometimes they ask me about gay stuff but it's not like I really know what I'm talking about it, so I probably sound just as weird and gross to them as they do to you." 

"They do?" Tweek has wondered sometimes if Craig plays along with the other guys just so he doesn't stand out so much, but he's never thought about Clyde or Token asking him directly about being gay. They sure never ask Tweek. 

"Sometimes. One time Clyde stole a magazine with dudes at the same time as his girly ones. It wasn't my thing, but he just wanted me to be included, I guess." Craig makes an aggravated noise. "I can't find my fucking key. Maybe if we go around back, Mom'll be in the kitchen."

"See, that's what I mean," Tweek persisted, trailing Craig around the side of the house, both of them whining at the drag of the snow pulling at their shoes, spilling over the tops of Tweek's boots. "Everybody else always has like, fuck, I don't know, a magazine or their mom's romance novels or the premium channels. You don't even watch porn!" Tweek folds his arms tight across his chest, shivering, as they reach the back pavement and Craig peers through the sliding door into the kitchen. His mother isn't right there, and he whacks the glass of the sliding door with an open hand a couple times. 

"That's 'cause porn is terrible," Craig replies, voice flat. "It's gross, and everyone looks fake. The gay stuff is even worse." He pauses pounding with his palm on the glass to mutter, "And I'd never treat you like those guys do."

"Wh..at?" This flusters Tweek even worse, his cheeks somehow stinging harder. He's tried some regular porn and some gay porn at various times, because of course he has, so he knows exactly what Craig is talking about. But he's never thought about how it might relate to him and Craig as boyfriends instead of just two strange people doing fucked up shit to each other on a laptop screen. 

"Shut up, ugh." Craig stares at the door like he can melt a hole right through the glass. "It looks rough, like it hurts. They say mean shit, and sometimes one cries. I don't want to do it anyway, if that's what it's like."

Tweek is pressed against Craig's side before he makes a conscious decision to do that, squeezing his arms around Craig's middle as tightly as he can with Craig's puffy winter coat in the way. One of the tassels of Craig's hat is tickling his nose, but Tweek only hugs harder, squashing his face against Craig's shoulder. "It's not, GAH, I'm sure it's not. That shit's fake."

"You don't know," Craig tells him snappishly. His cheek rubs against Tweek's hair. "You don't know any more than I fucking do."

Tweek bites his lip, realization trickling in that Mrs. Tucker's sex talk was actually about something sort of different than what he'd thought. He isn't ready right this second to bring it up with Craig, but it's turning out that both of them are idiots and they might need to ask her some questions after all. If the two of them together can't work it out either on their own or maybe with more intelligent use of Craig's laptop, it's nice to know her offer is an option, however embarrassing it'll end up being. 

Like she's summoned by Tweek's thoughts, Craig's mother throws open the sliding kitchen door suddenly, making Tweek shriek and clutch Craig so tightly he curses. 

"Jesus fuck, mom!" Craig yells, flipping her off. 

"Don't use that language with me!" his mother retorts, flipping him off right back with the hand that isn't on her hip. She looks mad, and Tweek cowers against Craig. "Where have you two been?! The bus came an hour ago! I called the Donovans and the Blacks already!"

"Tweek had a panic attack and missed lunch," Craig grumbles his explanation as he manhandles Tweek past his mother into the warmth of the kitchen, snapping the rest of his explanation over his shoulder. "The bus was gonna make him sick so we walked and then…" Craig trails off, glancing at Tweek like he's trying to decide what to say about the rest of it. 

"We had a fight," Tweek says through his chattering teeth. He makes a miserable face up at Mrs. Tucker because most moms quit yelling when he does that. "It's fine now! I started it."

"Shut up about who started it," Craig grunts, stripping his soaked coat and hat off, hanging them haphazardly on the back of a kitchen chair. He notices Tweek struggling with his boots, laces too tight and frozen, and turns to step on the back of one so Tweek can yank one foot out, then the other one. 

"Craig Tucker, your jeans are soaked!" his mother accuses, exasperated. "Both your faces are blue! You could have gotten hypothermia! I thought you'd been kidnapped to Peru again!" 

"We wouldn't have hypothermia in Peru, would we?" Craig says, smart-ass; his mother cuffs the back of his head hard. "Ow!"

"Upstairs right now to change!" she orders, pointing. "Warm shower first. March! Tweek, honey, do you still feel sick? I can make a box of mac and cheese, it'll be a while until dinner."

"Yes, please," Tweek says gratefully, his empty stomach growling at the thought. Mrs. Tucker gives him a push and Tweek trudges after Craig, feeling like every part of his body is made of lead, his ears and fingers stinging so bad that his eyes are blurry. 

"Separate showers!" Mrs. Tucker yells as an afterthought. 

Already halfway up the stairs, Craig hollers a, "Jesus CHRIST, Mom, fuck OFF!"

Upstairs, Craig shoves Tweek into the bathroom first. Tweek rushes through a shower, his body temperature so out of whack, face and fingers freezing but chest overheated, that it takes five minutes for it to stop feeling horribly unpleasant. By the time he gives up and carefully steps out to wrap himself in one of Craig's towels, Craig is knocking on the door and calling in to make sure Tweek hasn't brained himself on the tile. 

"I'm ok!" Tweek insists. He's covered from armpits to knees in the towel, so it's silly but cute how Craig is blushing as pushes the door open to hand him a sweatshirt and pajama pants. Tweek reaches for them, just wanting to be warm, then laughs when Craig looks alarmed. "You've seen me naked like five hundred times."

"It's different," Craig informs him, steering him by the shoulders so that they're back to back. "There."

Tweek drops the towel and shimmies into the pajama pants, listening to the shuffling noises of Craig stripping off his own wet clothes and resisting the mild temptation to turn around and peek. The sweatshirt is warm and soft from wear, making Tweek sigh in relief just as much from that as from the fact that it smells the way Craig's clothes always do from the cheap laundry detergent. Behind him, he hears the jingle of the shower curtain rings and the water turning on, Craig's pained yelp from the temperature difference. 

"I'm going to your room," Tweek calls over the water. Craig grunts an ok, and Tweek sneaks out, scuttling down the hallway before Mrs. Tucker really does catch them in the bathroom together, tripping a little on the way Craig's pajama pants are inches too long for him. 

By the time Craig is out, Mrs. Tucker has brought up two bowls of macaroni and cheese and Tweek is sitting in the center of Craig's bed, shoveling his into his mouth. Craig crawls into bed and hipchecks Tweek over before scooping up his own bowl from the nightstand. Both of them are quiet, mouths full, as Craig turns on his television and clicks the first thing on his "Continue Watching" list without really looking. Tweek passes out almost immediately after he's done eating, warm and full, curled up against Craig's side, Craig's arm around his shoulders. 

He wakes up no idea how much later, the room dim and orange from Craig's bedside lamp, flat on his back and Craig's face hovering over his own. 

"Babe? You awake?" Craig murmurs. His mouth is only a few inches away from Tweek's, and Tweek tiredly feels the want to kiss him rising up in his chest slowly, like blobs in a lava lamp. The ache of it is a little sweet in its familiarity, Tweek's gaze drifting from Craig's eyes down to his lips. 

Craig drops his head to kiss him, and Tweek's chest seizes with the shock of his wish turning abruptly into reality. He grunts a surprised "Mmurph?!" against Craig's mouth. Craig is just pulling back, eyes unsure, when it clicks into place for Tweek that kissing is a thing that they totally do now. He reaches up with both hands before Craig can ask anything, cupping Craig's stupidly sharp cheekbones like he's been dying to ever since the last growth spurt, and pulls him back down for a second kiss that's just as sweet but a lot less confused. 

Reality slips in on cat's feet as the kiss goes on, Tweek gradually becoming aware that Craig is leaning awkwardly over him from the side of the bed and that Tweek must have rolled into Craig's spot while he was gone, that Craig has one hand flat and warm against Tweek's chest, that he tastes like chili, spiced but faintly sweet because his mother puts brown sugar in it. 

"S-sorry," Tweek says when that kiss breaks. He rubs at his eyes as Craig climbs into bed, over top of him to stretch out on the wall side. Tweek's got one of Craig's blankets over him, he realizes, the fuzzy one that usually goes on top; he holds up the edge so Craig can get under it too, sighing at the trapped warmth. "I forgot what happened."

"Mmhmm." Craig shrugs, unconcerned, as he fits himself in along Tweek's side. "You missed dinner. Want anything?"

"Huh-uh," Tweek murmurs, eyes falling half-shut and letting his cheek fall against Craig's shoulder. The idea of dragging himself out of bed is horrible. So is the idea that he'll have to head home soon. "What time's it?"

"After eight." Craig's hand works into Tweek's hair, smoothing through the pillow-wild spikes from sleeping on it wet. "I said you were out cold and Mom called your mom, but she and your dad are both at the store until late, so she said you can stay."

"It's inventory," Tweek mumbles, remembering belatedly. He's supposed to be there and is glad he's missing it. He could kiss Craig for accidentally getting him out of it, and then remembers with another small shock of happiness that he actually can. 

So he does. It barely feels real since Tweek is half-asleep, small points of contact drawing his attention here and there: the brush of their noses when Craig pulls back to breathe, the weight of Craig's arm over his waist, the warmth that gathers where the jut of Tweek's hip is caught in the soft V of Craig's body curled against his. There's a small voice in the back of his head starting to fret over whether he's doing it right and what comes next and how fast they'll go on to the next thing, but Tweek's too tired to listen to it. 

It just seems too strange to even worry about, Tweek thinks when Craig pulls back far enough to look him over without going cross-eyed. Tweek isn't really sure what Craig's looking at, but it feels nice, Craig's thumb smoothing back and forth across Tweek's cheekbone, and Tweek doesn't find it a hardship to stare at Craig without worrying about being caught either. 

"Do you really like me?" he asks, exhaustion making him relatively inhibition-free, like that time last summer Token's parents had thrown a barbecue and they'd gotten half-buzzed on half a pitcher of peach sangria they'd stolen from the table. "Like the same as me really?"

Instead of saying yes or no, Craig asks, "What's it feel like to you?"

"Like…" Tweek lets his eyes flutter shut a moment, just feeling the swell of it in his chest. "Like a balloon getting filled with really warm water, like way too full, but it never bursts no matter how much you pour in." He opens his eyes and puts his hand to his chest, palm open over the center of it. "Mostly right here."

Craig nods, expression serious. "Yup. Like that. Then sometimes it moves here instead." Putting his hand over top of Tweek's, Craig slides their hands down to Tweek's stomach, just above his bellybutton. Even through the sweatshirt, Tweek can feel the heat of both of their hands, making him shiver pleasantly. "Right?"

"Craig!" he protests, laughing, but Craig is still watching him, waiting for an answer. Tweek feels heat creep into his cheeks as he admits, "Yeah. Sometimes."

"Good," Craig says, relief softening his expression. Tweek pulls him down for more kissing, feeling like he doesn't have any more words to get his feelings across and this seems to be working a lot better. 

They're still swapping slow kisses when a strangled exclamation from the hallway interrupts, making both of them jump. 

"FOR PETE'S SAKE!" Craig's dad yells, framed in Craig's doorway. Craig goes stiff and tries to roll away, but Tweek is clinging too tightly from panic. "Don't you have the sense the Lord gave you? Shut the door if you're gonna do that sort of thing!" 

"THAT'S EXACTLY WHY THE DOOR IS SUPPOSED TO BE OPEN, THOMAS, YOU MORON," Craig's mother bellows from the other end of the hall. Mr. Tucker flashes his middle finger down the hallway. 

"Yeah, Dad, fuck off!" Craig snaps. Tweek tries to worm his way under the blanket while still clinging to Craig like a leech. 

"Can't a man walk through his own house?!" Craig's father demands, swinging his arm to include Craig in the middle finger. "I don't want to see that kind of stuff!" He pauses, seeming to catch himself. "Uh, no offense, Tweek. It's not because of the, uh, gay thing."

"No offense taken, sir," Tweek mutters, voice muffled by the blanket and Craig's chest. 

"I wouldn't want to see it even if you were a girl," he continues, eyes focused somewhere on the ceiling. 

"Well, he's NOT a girl," Craig announces, going from trying to pry Tweek off of him to clutching him tighter in one second flat. "Because I'm GAY."

"I mean, I can obviously see that," Mr. Tucker mutters. 

"Hey, sounds like something good's going on here," Tricia says, sticking her head in the doorway, to Tweek's utter mortification. Maybe if they called the Marshes over from across the street, that could somehow make this even more embarrassing. "Oh good, are you guys finally getting started on my baby niece or nephew?"

"What the fuck," Craig groans.

"I heard Mom gave Tweek the sex talk," Tricia says smugly. "Just so you know, I'm gonna be an awesome aunt."

"SEE, LAURA?" Craig's father bellows down the hall. "THIS—" he waves both hands as if to encompass Tricia, Craig, and Tweek, "—IS EXACTLY WHY PUBLIC SCHOOLS SHOULDN'T TEACH SEX ED!" 

"I'D SURE LIKE TO SEE YOU DO BETTER, THOMAS 'RHYTHM METHOD' TUCKER!"

"Whoa dude," Tweek breathes, giggling nervously. Craig's whole face scrunches up. 

"For pity's sake, woman," Mr. Tucker says, pushing Tricia back far enough that he can yank Craig's door shut with a satisfying slam. There's some more muffled yelling through the door, and Craig goes limp against Tweek. 

"They're soooo embarrassing," Craig grumbles, burying his face in the curve of Tweek's neck. Tweek is still snickering, harder when Craig's whining tickles his skin. 

"Mmm," Tweek hums. Craig's temple is within easy reach, so Tweek presses a kiss to it. "I'm glad your parents can't count."

"That's fucking it," Craig growls, digging fingers deep into Tweek's armpits, refusing to be dislodged even when Tweek kicks and flails. Tweek wails for Craig to stop in between tortured giggles and Craig does not stop, and they end up rolling off the edge of his bed with a crash that's only partially softened by the blanket they're still tangled in. 

When Craig's mother throws open the door to yell at them for yelling, Craig's straddling Tweek, but it's for the purpose of murder and Tweek's tears are from tickling and not bad internet-style sex, so it's barely embarrassing at all. 

It's a lot more embarrassing sitting next to Craig's parents the next night at the musical while Mr. Tucker is asking his wife in a too-loud whisper exactly what his kid is doing up there in all that leather anyway, no wonder things turned out like this. 

"Shh, he looks handsome," his wife shushes him, unmoved. "Tweek sure thinks so, don't you, Tweek?"

"Jesus, uugh, Christ," Tweek mutters, sinking down lower in his seat until his face is half-buried in his over-sized sweater. On stage, Craig is strutting around with Clyde and Jimmy in their leather jackets and sunglasses, sweating under the stage lights and making finger guns like complete tools. It's a good thing he's seen them rehearse every scene infinity times, because Tweek's attention keeps drifting to Craig no matter what the leads are doing. "…Yeah," he agrees, belatedly and too quiet for Mrs. Tucker to hear. 

After the show, there's the usual crowded struggle out to the lobby to wait for the musical kids to wander out. Tweek slips away from the Tuckers, squeezing his way past knots of people and trying to ignore the panic flickering in his chest from being crushed in by people on all sides, until he reaches the edge of the music hallway. Tweek heaves a soft sigh of relief at being out of the crowd and trots quickly to where the boys must be changing, remembering which room from yesterday afternoon. 

"Tweek!" Clyde calls when Tweek sticks his head in, waving his arm wildly like he's on a passing boat instead of just across the room. Craig looks up, in the middle of tugging his T-shirt on, the corner of his mouth curling up when his eyes meet Tweek's. Tweek dashes across the room to throw himself against Craig's side before Clyde's done speaking. "What's the verdict? Were we good?"

"Yes!" Tweek tells Clyde as Craig hugs him back, strong and warm. "Yeah, it was great."

"Gayer than North Park does _The Sound of Music?_ " Craig asks. He smells like leather and sweat and laundry detergent, and Tweek wants to bury his nose in Craig's chest almost as much as he wants to push to his toes and kiss him. He doesn't quite dare do either here, in front of Clyde and Jimmy everyone else. 

"Nothing's gayer than North Park." Tweek grins up at him. "Except _you_."

Craig squeezes Tweek tight enough to make him squeak. "Brat."

"Asshole," Tweek wheezes. Craig's smiling too, both of them beaming at each other like idiots. 

"Geez, get a room, you two," Clyde says breezily, casually yanking Tweek away from Craig. He gives Tweek a wink so quick that Tweek's not entirely sure he saw it, and Tweek wonders if Craig has told him already, about the two of them. "Or at least save it for the cast party."


	6. Epilogue: We Go Together Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is finally finished, oh my god. Do you know I've been writing this since January?! How did I get here. How. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you thought the resolution was worth it after all of that, and please enjoy this cast party epilogue. Thank you for reading!

The closet is pitch dark, which would normally freak Tweek out, but his eyes are squeezed shut anyway. The smallness of it isn't a problem either, since he's leaning into Craig so hard that they're flush from knees to forehead, pressing Craig against the wall. 

Making out is _fun_. Craig's mouth is warm and wet against Tweek's, Tweek's lips starting to tingle pleasantly from the friction of a few minutes of kissing. Craig's hands are in his hair, pushing it back from his face, fingers twisted tightly in the strands; Tweek's hands had started at Craig's waist but now are clutching at the back of his T-shirt as if he could somehow drag them even closer together. 

Tweek sneaks one hand under Craig's T-shirt, marveling at how hot Craig's skin is as he drags fingers up the bumps of his spine one by one. 

Craig tears his mouth away from Tweek's to mutter, "Hang on a sec."

"Too much?" Tweek asks, rubbing his cheek against Craig's shoulder. He's still a little worried about the speed they're going, muted under the static kissing Craig creates in his brain, but it's turning out that his speed might be a little faster than Craig's after all.

"It's a lot," Craig answers, neither a yes nor a no. He doesn't push Tweek back, though, and for a moment there's only the sound of both of their breathing. One hand drops from Tweek's hair, and there's the soft rustle of Craig shifting. "Hey, babe?"

"Yeah?" Tweek asks, then whines as Craig's phone screen lighting up stings his dark-adjusted eyes. "Ow!"

"Sorry," Craig chuckles. He thumbs the icon to flip the camera, and their faces appear on the screen, grainy and washed out because of the shitty lighting. "Say cheese."

They take at least a dozen pair selfies, both of them making stupid faces and muffling snorts of laughter. Tweek's favorite is the one where he kisses Craig's cheek just as Craig clicks the button, capturing his surprised face perfectly. By the time someone knocks on the closet door to holler that their seven minutes are up, they tumble out of the closet with pink cheeks and mussed hair. The kid who lets them out gives them a knowing look, and Tweek is deeply satisfied by how that kid and everyone else are partly right but also partly wrong about what goes on between him and Craig.

The cast party is at one of the eighth grader's houses, the finished basement set up for people to stay over, although Craig's mother is coming to pick them up at eleven. Tweek is glad; the party is too full of people he doesn't know and he'd much rather spend the night in the familiar space of Craig's room. He does his best to seem like he's normal for now, though, as a few of the kids call hi to Craig as Craig crosses the basement towards the stairs. Some of them seem to even want to meet Tweek, which Tweek finds baffling if a little nice. 

"He never shuts up about you, you know," one girl comments, her sly grin flashing her silver braces. 

"W-what?" Tweek asks, glancing up at Craig. The idea of Craig never shutting up about anything is bizarre. Craig won't meet his eyes but squeezes his hand tight. 

"And there's some totally cute art of you as a Pink Lady," she continues. Groaning, Craig drags Tweek away, Tweek spluttering, the girl's laughter ringing out behind them. 

When they finally make their way upstairs, they're accosted by Bebe almost immediately. 

"THERE you two are!" she exclaims. She grabs for Craig's free hand to try and drag him along, ignoring Craig's attempts to shake her off. "Come on, we're gonna start Spin the Bottle."

"No way," Craig flatly refuses, planting his heels and yanking his hand back. Tweek shrinks against Craig's side, definitely not into the idea of playing a kissing game with a bunch of kids he doesn't know. 

"Oh, come on!" Bebe insists, putting one hand on her hip. She waves behind her at the circle of kids already sitting on the living room floor, watching them expectantly. "We need more boys!"

"Yeah, Craig, don't be a jerk!" Red calls from the circle. "We know you're taken, it's only a game!"

"Forget it," Craig tells them, dropping Tweek's hand to curl a possessive arm around his shoulders. "There's only one person at this party who I'd ever want to kiss."

To Tweek's total shock, Craig cups his cheek to turn his face up and kisses him soundly, right there in front of everybody. It's thorough and unhurried, the pounding of Tweek's heart in his ears not quite covering the mix of _aaaaws_ and frustrated groans from the girls, along with a loud, "GET IT, TWEEK!" from Butters. 

Tweek is sure his face is flushed stop sign red by the time the kiss breaks, and his eyes flutter open to find Craig looking him over as if admiring his handiwork. Tweek likes him so much that his breath catches, the swell of it under his ribs almost unbearable. 

"Well?" Craig asks. "Told you I'd kiss you in front of everybody."

Tweek bites his lip to keep from smiling. "You said in front of the whole school, though," he points out. "This isn't the _whole_ school."

"Oh yeah?" Craig's answering smile is sharp with promise, filling Tweek's chest with slightly neurotic butterflies. "Just wait until Monday, honey."


End file.
